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kingofkingdom-archive · 4 years

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Recovery [Ezra (Prospect) x Fem!Reader]

A/N: Hello all! This is my first Pedro Pascal work and the first to be posted here to this blog. If anyone has any requests, don’t hesitate to send them my way! As always, please read the tags/warnings, you are responsible for the media you choose to consume. Also posted to AO3 under the same username (kingofkingdom). I did not use “y/n” or anything similar in this story.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You were taken from your younger sister, Cee, ten years ago. When you answered a distress call from the Green, you didn’t expect to be reunited with her, and you certainly didn’t expect to meet a man like Ezra.

Warnings: mention of past violence/death, discussion of medical procedure, discussion of disability (amputation/loss of limb), family dynamics, abstract discussion of philosophy, small SW universe cameo :)

Tags: considerable amounts of fluff, size kink, daddy kink, hint of dd/lg, copious use of various pet names, p-in-v sex, some breast play/worship, some dom!ezra & sub!reader

Word count: 9552

You hadn't seen Cee since your mother died.

Her father had taken her and left you in the care of your aunt, a woman you didn't know, a woman who jumped at the chance to send you off to boarding school on the Ephrate the moment you were old enough. Most of your memories consisted of your host family there, with a younger "sister" who reminded you all too much of the one you had lost. In your mind, Cee was still a toddler, all wispy blonde hair and big blue eyes.

Cee's father had never liked you. You were the evidence of his wife's life before him, and you looked too much like your own deceased father for him to have any affection toward you. It didn't surprise you that he left you behind after your mother died, but at ten that didn't make it hurt any less.

Since then, ten years had passed. Now, your aunt was gone, and your studies on the Ephrate completed. You'd taken to a rather nomadic lifestyle, catching rides from planet to station to planet and picking up odd jobs here and there. It wasn't much, but you'd become a strong woman in your time on your own, and thoughts of your half-sister plagued you only some nights now.

Jobs you took ranged from helping the lone-wolf prospector on an excavation to ship repairs at major stations across the system. In one of your darker moments, you'd even carried out a hit against some low-level merc who'd pissed off the wrong people. Those people paid well, enough to fill your stomach for a few days and cover a ride far away from that moon. The right circles knew you could hold your own, and that's what mattered.

This particular station was on the outskirts of the system, a rough-and-tumble place frequented only by prospectors and the people that paid them. You'd taken a shift at the bar here a few weeks ago, and knew the locals pretty well. In a spot like this, people could often get more information at your humble establishment than they could from the officials. You were lying low, and you itched to get moving again, like the nomad you were.

Hence why you kept the radio channels on all the time during your shifts, quiet and unobtrusive where you stood at the bar.

You were thankful, looking back, that it had been a quiet afternoon, and that you'd been so vigilant in keeping track of job openings.

"This is Kilo-Romeo 12, calling from Green sector 608. In need of assistance pronto, rapid extraction A.S.A.P."

The voice is faint, but frantic - a masculine growl laced with an edge of panic. Your radio isn't the best, and you don't recognize the prospector's callsign, but you know he must be in deep shit. A call like this from the Green is a death sentence if someone doesn't act quickly.

As with most of your decisions, you act entirely on impulse. As you hit the button to close up the bar's doors, the radio is already in your hands.

"This is Juno B-390, responding to Kilo-Romeo 12. Do you copy?"

You're down the hall by now, rushing to your quarters to collect your meager belongings. Everything fits in a single pack, and you're just pulling your helmet onto your head when the radio crackles to life again.

"I copy, Juno B-390," the relief is evident in his voice, even through the static. "We need extraction and medical care."

Well, that wasn't in the initial signal. "We? How many are with you? And what kind of medical care are we talkin' here?"

"Just me and one other. Deep trauma to the abdomen, I'm afraid."

You swear under your breath. Nothing you can't handle, but this guy's timer's really running out. You grab the necessary supplies and dash to your small pod racer, which is just big enough with its three seats.

"Hang on, Kilo-Romeo. I'll be there as soon as I'm able. You'll need to direct me to your exact location, is that clear?"

There's a moment of silence before his voice echoes through your racer one last time.

"Clear."

You descend upon the Green as fast as the forces of physics and gravity allow you to. Sector 608, as it says on your map, is a stretch of deep woods and rolling terrain, nearly unexplored save for the last rush. You slow up as you approach, and call out to the prospector over the radio once again.

"Kilo-Romeo 12, this is Juno B-390. I am approaching your location. Do you copy?"

It's quiet. Much too quiet. You slow the racer even more, as your heart begins to race. Just as you begin to worry that you're too late, the radio awakens.

It's not the man, however, whose voice you hear.

"This is Ez-- I mean, this is Kilo-Romeo's... uh... companion. He's gotten worse."

It's a girl. A young teen, from the sound of it. Your heart clenches, thinking of how scared she must be out there.

"Okay, hey there. It's gonna be okay. Can you tell me what landmarks you see? Help me find you."

"Um, yeah. We're in a clearing, there's another ship right nearby. It's not operational, which is wh-- uh, yeah. Clearing, big ship. Also sort of a gulley nearby."

You're about to respond when she speaks again.

"Please, hurry."

"I will, kid. Just keep him alive."

It takes you longer than you would've liked to find this clearing, but once you do you see a scene that brings more questions than answers. Dead bodies litter the field and a half-blown excavation site sits in ruins. Discretion's always been a virtue of yours, though, so you file the information away in your brain and swiftly land your craft. As soon as you exit, you hear the girl's voice not too far away.

"Here! We're over here!"

You grab the field kit and run over to where she stands over a slumped figure. The man you'd spoken to is now unconscious, and not only does he have a nasty looking wound in his chest, he's missing an arm. You look up at the girl. Her brows are furrowed, eyes like steel. You like her already.

"Go to the racer and grab the stretcher that's behind the passenger seat. We'll have to move him onto that and carry him over."

She nods and runs off. Immediately, you turn to the man and take stock of his injuries. The arm has been gone for at least a little while, so that's not of immediate concern. You set to treating the chest wound, making sure to purge it and his suit of dust. Nasty stuff, that which floats around this planet. His filter is as good as gone, so you quickly connect your own.

You drain the wound with the juice the locals here produce, which is generally in stock in the station's field kits. It smells rank, but it works, and the man below you groans. Good, he's still vocal, at least. It doesn't sound like a lung's been punctured. You set up a highly temporary pocket over his wound and torn suit through which you can patch the injury. You take some foaming antiseptic and apply it to the wound before adhering a sticky bio-bandage over the top of it.

It'll do for now. He'll need further treatment at the station, but this should keep him alive, at least.

The girl returns with the stretcher then, and places it next to the man. You glance up at her, and see momentarily a young version of yourself. Eager to help. Eager to make things right.

You shake your head, collecting your thoughts. "Okay, so I'm going to tilt his body towards me, and you slide the stretcher as far as you can under him. Then we'll let him down on top of it and secure him for travel. Can you do that?"

She nods, and you give her a small smile. You hook one arm around the man's waist, the other supporting his neck and shoulder.

"On three, okay? One... two... three!"

Quickly, you roll him up onto his remaining arm as she slides the stretcher under him. As gently as possible, you let him back down, and just like that he's mostly on the stretcher. You set to arranging him properly and tying straps down.

The girl fidgets, and you look up to her.

"Do you know how to stow the back seat in a racer like that?" you ask, and she nods.

"Good, go do it."

She runs off, and is back by the time you've gotten the man secured to the stretcher.

"You take the handles at his feet and I'll take his head. We have to be careful not to tilt him too much, to keep the weight on the stretcher even. Did he suffer any head trauma?"

The girl shakes her head. "No, I don't think so."

You probably should have asked that before moving him onto the stretcher, but then again no one's ever known you for your excellence in trauma care. Your knowledge of first aid comes only from what you've picked up in the field, so sometimes the order of operations gets a bit jumbled.

Whatever. He'll be okay. You can't let yourself think otherwise.

The girl stoops to grab hold of the handles at his feet. You do the same at his head, and again you count backwards from three.

"Up!"

Together you stand, and twin groans echo from both of you. The girl huffs, clearly struggling a bit under the weight.

"Okay, let's go. Slowly, remember."

You walk backwards, feet taking cautious steps so as to keep the same pace as the young girl. Her face is screwed up in focus and concentration, hands in a vice grip on the handles.

"You're doing good, kid. Just a bit further."

Before you know it, you've reached the ship. Carefully, you set the stretcher in the racer, and then the two of you slide it in. There's just barely enough room for it. You quickly secure it, and then close the hatch.

The girl is looking at you, eyes wide and chest heaving. You reach out a gloved hand and set it on her shoulder, giving a firm squeeze.

"He'll be okay. I promise. Now go get in the passenger seat and I'll get us back up to the station."

She nods, and seems to relax a bit at that. You can't help but wonder what she's been through, out here in this rough, unforgiving environment. "Thank you."

You smile, and sincerely hope that this young girl finds a way to leave this life of prospecting behind. You don't know how she got here, but it's no place for someone so young. You know that all too well.

"Let's go, kid."

The trip was pretty quiet save for a single groan from the man in back. The girl glanced back to him when she heard that, and then looked at you, concerned.

"It's okay. He'll be in and out of consciousness until we get to the station. I'll pull up to the emergency med-bay so the doctors can start treating him properly right away."

You look over to her, and she nods.

"Does he have anyone they can contact? Any family?" you ask. "The doctors will need to know."

She shakes her head. "I'm not sure. I don't think so."

You sigh. "Okay. Well, we'll deal with that when we get there."

It's not long after that you arrive at the med-bay. It's a whirlwind of nurses and questions and forms, most of which you have to leave blank, since you don't know the guy and the girl seems not to know much more. She does, however, give you a name.

"His name's Ezra," she offers, when she sees you pause at the line on the top of the screen.

You look over at her. "Ezra? Spelled E-Z-R-A?"

She nods. "Never told me a last name though."

"That's alright. A first name's enough."

She sits next to you and helps where she can as you fill out the form. Once you're done, you go up to hand the tablet back to the receptionist. You then sit back down next to her, crossing your arms over your flight suit. The girl's fiddling with her fingers, bag tucked between her feet.

"Do you think we'll be able to see him when they're done?" she asks, clearly trying not to sound as worried as she is.

You shrug. "Probably. It might be a while, though. Do you want something to eat while we wait?"

She nods, and when you look over at her, she's smiling.

As it turns out, it does take a pretty long time for them to complete the operation. It feels like hours that you two are sitting there. You watch the people come and go from the waiting room while the girl writes in some notebook, headphones secure over her ears, absently eating a chocolate bar.

She can't be more than 13 or 14. You think back to when you were that age - in the middle of your time at the Ephrate, moody and angsty like all young teens. It makes you think of Cee. She'd be about that age by now. You look over to the girl sitting next to you, wondering what ever became of your sister. Maybe she's at the Ephrate by now, or perhaps her father has taken her to some peaceful planet with beaches and a nice home, a few pets running around.

Hopefully a better life than the one you've led. Somewhere far from thrower blasts and gemstones.

This girl seems nice enough, and you're sure she's seen her fair share of shit. It's clear this guy's not only not her father, but that they haven't known each other long at all. You can't help but wonder how they ended up traveling together.

Images of the clearing littered with bodies flashes in your mind. Something went down there, and it clearly got ugly fast. It's amazing that the girl emerged relatively unscathed. You've seen a fair share of shootouts and fights, and never did you escape completely uninjured. It takes cleverness and a strong sense of self-preservation, the latter of which you don't often have.

You're ruminating on the mystery sitting next to you when the doors to the operating rooms swing open. A nurse steps out and looks at both of you. You stand, and she follows suit.

"He's awake, and asking for you," the nurse says. You nudge the girl slightly with your elbow.

"Go on, go see hi--"

The nurse cuts in. "He's asking for both of you."

Oh. You're surprised. He doesn't even know you, so there's no reason he should be asking to see you. Despite your confusion, you follow behind the girl as she follows the nurse to his room.

The hallways are sterile and white, cleaner than anything you've seen in months. The doorway is the last on the right, and inside is a single bed, with a small window looking out to the stars.

The young girl enters first as the nurse stands to the side, and you hover in the doorway to watch, still not quite feeling entirely welcome. You can just see the man's - Ezra's - hair behind the girl, with an unusual shock of blonde in otherwise dark brown curls.

"I was wondering where you went, birdie. One minute I was on the ground and next thing I know I'm sitting here like a babe in a bassinet, right as rain," he says, voice melodic with an accent you can't quite place.

"Do you feel better, Ezra?" the girl asks, voice wavering just slightly.

"I do. Are you faring alright yourself?"

She nods, and crosses her arms. Silence fills the room for a moment, then Ezra speaks again.

"Who was so kind as to bring us here, birdie?" he asks. The girl turns to you and steps aside so Ezra can see you.

"She did," she replies, a soft look on her face.

You step forward and look at Ezra properly for the first time. You hadn't really paid much attention to his facial features back on the Green, so concerned as you were with getting him out of there.

His dark brown eyes are kind, and his lips tease at a smile. He's got stubble growing on his chin and a mustache on his lip. There's a thin white line in the shape of a crescent underneath his left eye, the silvery remnant of a deep cut sustained long ago. He's older than you, maybe 40 or so. For some reason, you feel butterflies erupt in your stomach, but you're quick to snuff those out best you can. Mirroring the girl, you cross your arms, and flip your braid over your shoulder.

"Yeah, that would be me," you say, as nonchalantly as you can manage.

"I recognize that voice from the radio," he notes, looking at you intently. "I can't hardly give you enough thanks for getting the two of us out of that... sticky situation. You really are somethin' else, sugar."

You shrug, unused to such praise, such immediate kindness. You feel your face heat up with a blush, and you clear your throat.

"Well, it sure sounded like you were in need of some help. I'm happy to see you're doing better."

Your voice is softer than you intend. Spending even three minutes with this guy seems to have thrown you off balance. You haven't met anyone that talks like him since you were in school, and it's like a breath of fresh air.

His face turns serious at your words. Ezra's gaze is as intense as it is gentle, burning into your own.

"Oh, much better," he assures you, giving you a look you can't quite decipher. A smile quickly returns to his features. "It's a shame they couldn't get my arm to grow back."

You laugh a little at that, happy to see that he's in good spirits. The nurse steps forward then, tablet in hand. The three of you turn to her.

"Ezra will likely be discharged tomorrow morning, given how much progress he's made just today. He will need somewhere to rest, however, for the next week or so. We can help to make boarding arrangeme--"

"No," you interrupt, surprising even yourself. "No, he can stay with me. I have quarters in the 4th wing." You turn to the girl. "You can stay with me too, if you'd like." You don't know what's come over yourself, but you find yourself drawn to this unlikely pair.

The girl nods once, just as Ezra speaks up. "You're too kind, sugar. Your hospitality and generosity are appreciated beyond measure. Do let us know if there's any way at all we can show our gratitude."

You shake your head immediately, waving a hand as if to wave away the notion.

"No need for that. Consider it a celebratory gift for parting with the Green."

Everyone laughs at that - even the nurse, who hides her grin behind her tablet.

The next morning, you and the girl - whose name you still don't know, and who still does not know yours - visit the med-bay first thing after breakfast. Your quarters are small, enough to fit two comfortably and three at most. The girl has decided to take the sofa, since Ezra will need to rest, and a bed is most ideal for that. It seems you both tend to rise early, so you gave her some oatmeal and a cup of coffee. She took both without hesitation, and it warmed your heart to see her eat after however long she and Ezra had been out there.

When you two arrive, Ezra is waiting in his room, dressed in clean loungewear with a bag on his lap. He is seated in a wheelchair. You and the girl greet him, happy to see that he is rested and ready to leave.

"I told the kind folks that I am more than able to walk unaided," he comments when you begin to push the chair from behind. "They insisted, however, and I am not one to ignore the advice and orders of my physicians."

You see the girl try to hide a smile. It seems as though he's grown on her, and she struggles to admit that to herself. Before you can think better of it, you give Ezra a pat on the right shoulder, a small attempt at reassurance.

"You'll be walking in no time, I'm sure," you reply.

You feel his left hand cover your own, and you nearly stumble as you push him along through the hallway. His palm is rough and callused, a signature trait of most prospectors. It's large, too, covering your own entirely. Its warmth soaks through the back of your hand and into your stomach.

"With kindness as bright as yours to guide me, that will certainly be the case."

You don't know what to say to that, so you give his shoulder a squeeze and retract your hand.

The 4th wing is not too far from the med-bay; the station itself is smaller than most, so the distance is blessedly short. Ezra does most of the talking while the three of you walk.

"It would suit me just perfectly to never see that god-forsaken moon again so long as I live," he comments just as you reach the door to your quarters. You scan your ID card and the panel slides open, revealing a small but comfortable dwelling. "Forget the gems, forget the money. Prospecting is surely the most foolish endeavor of them all."

"The lust for wealth is stronger than the fear of death," you reply, almost without thinking.

Ezra looks up at you, smiling, a curious look on his face. "Asmolea. Ruminations, chapter seven. Color me impressed, sugar."

You look back, equally surprised. "You recognize that quote?"

"Why, yes, in fact, I do," he responds, and you notice the girl watching the two of you out of the corner of your eye. "I was an admirer of the great thinkers, long ago. When I was younger, and more -- well, more curious about such things, I suppose."

You wheel him into the small sitting area, arranged around a holo-screen. The walls are bare, lack of personality belying a short-lived residence here. You engage the wheelchair's brakes and take a seat yourself, across from him on an armchair. The girl sits on the sofa, where she slept last night.

"Philosophy is the sustenance of the mind," he continues, kicking his feet up to rest on the coffee table. He winces slightly at the motion, but keeps speaking nevertheless. "Without it, we decay. We risk succumbing to trivial errors of man. It is the sharpening stone to the blade of our intellect."

"What about literature?" the girl asks, her eyes firey and brow set. "I think that's much more valuable than what some ancient guy thought about a world we don't even know anymore."

You smile, pleased at this contribution. "I think great literature can convey philosophical ideas in the form of a modern narrative. You just have to keep an eye out for it, and understand its relevance to the story."

Ezra nods along. "I agree. Where did you read Asmolea, sugar?"

"At the Ephrate," you reply, and you see the girl perk up. You smile at her, hoping the two of you will have a chance to discuss that later. She seems entirely intrigued by you now. "I studied there for seven years, until I was eighteen."

"Why did you leave?" the girl asks.

You sigh, and bring your foot up to rest on the chair, so your thigh is pressed against your front. "Life there didn't suit me. I'm much happier on my own, not surrounded by stuffy academics and pretentious businessmen. The only ones I could stand there were the monks."

Ezra laughs at that. "The Neo-Carthusians?"

You nod, grinning. "Yeah. Considered joining, for about a month or so. I admire their lives of solitude and contemplation, but I couldn't imagine staying in one place for so long."

The conversation flows between the three of you so naturally you hardly notice the time flying by. They ask questions about you, and you return the favor by inquiring about their lives. The girl is quiet when it comes to her past, but you find out her father died on the Green. Both she and Ezra are hesitant to talk about it, which tells you all that you need to know.

Night falls quickly, or at least night according to standard time - on the station, there is no night or day, just a constant darkness visible out the windows interrupted by pinpricks of light. Everyone follows the standard clock, which runs according to time on the Ephrate.

You show Ezra to his room after the three of you have eaten dinner. It's a small space, just enough for a bed and a dresser. Carefully, he stands from the wheelchair, tosses his bag on the bed, and turns to look at you.

He's much taller than you are. The butterflies return as you look up at him, and a warm feeling radiates through the area below your stomach.

"Thank you again for the hospitality, sugar," he murmurs, voice low and deep. He moves the wheelchair out from between you, so there's nothing but air separating the two of you. "As I said, don't hesitate to ask if there is anything I can do to repay you. Anything at all."

You nod, at a loss for words. His hand comes up and gently brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear. You positively melt. This man is going to be the death of you.

"I'm just glad to see you safe, Ezra," you reply, and your eyes flutter at the way his fingers linger over the apple of your cheek. His lips look so soft, his eyes full of promises he intends to keep. You can feel yourself falling, as if in a dream.

You blink and lean back, away from him. This is a bad idea. For what reason, you can't say, but you dart to your room as soon as you begin to doubt yourself.

You shut the door and lean against it. There's no way, your mind whispers to you. He feels indebted. That's the only reason. You're too young, he just sees you as a kid.

In your haste, you didn't see the look in his eyes as you left so suddenly, or the way he stared at the door long after you shut it.

In the night, you dream of him. Dark eyes above you, heavenly, filthy moans filling the air around you, something thick and perfect filling the empty space inside you. His musical voice murmurs sweet words in your ear, and you hear the sound of your passion just as much as you feel it. Your hands grip his hair as he thrusts, your body trembling underneath him.

Your peak startles you awake, and you find your bedsheets soaked with the evidence of your fantasy.

Your bedside clock tells you it is the early hours of the morning. With a sigh, you toss back the blankets and emerge from your room quietly.

After a quick shower in the refresher, you step out and wrap a towel around yourself. You stare into the mirror, thinking about him.

You've never felt such an instant attraction to anyone before in your life. Sure, his looks contribute quite a bit, but it's much more than that. You and he seem to have a similar intellect, his passion and aptitude for prose matching your own knowledge and understanding of philosophy and the humanities. The girl is also equally respected by him as she is by you, and you both share a common want to see her thrive. You've known them both barely a day and a half, but they already feel more like family than anyone you've ever known.

You wonder if you're imagining his affections toward you. That could just be him, his way of communicating. You desperately hope it's more than that, but you also can't get your hopes up because of a silly dream.

A silly, beautiful dream.

Water drips from your hair, down your chest, and into the towel. As you begin to shiver, you decide to return to bed and try again for some uninterrupted sleep. You'll have to change the sheets, unfortunately, but that shouldn't take more than a few minutes.

You open the door and tiptoe back out into the hallway, quiet as a mouse. Just as you're about to sneak back into your room, towel clutched tightly in your fingers, you're startled by the door opposite your own sliding open.

And there he is. Dressed in little more than a pair of grey shorts, hair tousled and eyes weary with sleep.

He blinks a few times, and then his eyes widen, suddenly much more awake. You see him glance down, and his mouth parts ever so slightly before his gaze returns to your face.

You are frozen in place. Somewhere in your mind, you will your feet to dart away again, but the remnants of your dream still echo in your muscles, preventing you from leaving. Your hands tighten on your towel and despite yourself, you make note of his chest, his abdomen - the wound, which is an angry red line, held together with clear stitching, and which makes your heart clench at the thought of what would've happened had you not arrived - and finally, a rapid glance at his shorts, his thighs, before you find your sense and look back up at his face.

There's that intensity again, with considerably less gentleness. You inhale sharply, and spare a glance towards the sitting area, where the girl sleeps.

"She's quite the light sleeper, I'm afraid. I'd be mightily surprised if she didn't already hear --"

His voice is low, nearly inaudible to your ears as you look back at him. The tone of it causes the insides of your thighs to tremble, and your chest to heave with silent breaths. Ezra cuts himself off, clearly not having meant to say as much as he did.

Maybe it's the early hour that makes the words escape your lips with ease. Maybe it's the dream, the visions of which you can still see in your mind's eye as you look at him. Perhaps there's just something about Ezra that makes you bold, standing there with nothing more than thin terrycloth protecting your modesty.

"Hear what, Ezra?" you whisper, and set your jaw when his eyes widen ever so slightly.

Ezra reaches out, and his hand comes up to grip the back of your neck. His thumb strokes your jawline, behind your ear, and he steps forward. He's so close that you can feel the heat from his body on your own.

His lips press softly against your forehead, a surprisingly intimate gesture that makes you shiver. The hand that isn't clutching your towel moves to rest on his waist, golden skin warm under your cold fingers.

"Hear this, sweet thing," he murmurs against your skin, lips still pressed against you. "How strongly I feel for you. How deeply I know that it was divine providence that brought you to me. The ways I want to repay you for saving my life.”

His words are like molten gold, shimmering and hot as they slip over your skin and into your heart. You shiver, and your fingers curl gently into his side.

”I don’t - I don’t want you to feel obligated to... to do anything. With me. For me,” you whisper back, eyes closed, basking in the feeling of this quiet moment.

Ezra hums in dissent against your worries. “No... no...” he says, as his fingers slowly thread their way into your hair. “It isn't like that —“

He’s interrupted by a shuffling sound from the sitting room. You both freeze, wide-eyed, and look toward the room where the girl sleeps.

A moment passes, and then two. Enough that you know she is still asleep and there isn’t any risk of her finding you two like this.

It‘s like ice water thrown over you, the reminder of where and who you are. You look back up to Ezra, whose eyes are soft and knowing as they stare at you. His hand gently caresses the back of your neck, and then he brings it back to rest at his side.

"Go to bed, sweetheart," he murmurs, and then steps around you. He enters the refresher without another word.

You do as he says, but you find yourself struggling to fall back asleep once you return to clean, cool sheets. You watch the stars inch past outside your window as your mind races at the memory of his lips.

The next morning, you wake to sounds of movement coming from outside your door. For a moment you panic, before you remember your two visitors. And then you remember your encounter with one of those visitors last night, and the hushed words exchanged between you and him.

Beside you, the clock reads barely past 06:00, which is usually the time you wake up anyway. Today you have another shift at the bar, assuming you still have a job there after you ditched it the other day. With a groan, you pull yourself out from under the warm, soft covers and dress yourself.

The noise becomes more decipherable as you make your way down the hallway. Ezra and the girl are making small talk while something sizzles. You turn the corner and see Ezra standing at the stove with the girl sitting at the counter, the pleasing aromatic smell of pork bacon wafting through the air. You lean against the wall and watch the pair with a small smile, happy to see someone making use of a space normally reserved for microwave rations and alcohol snuck from the bar.

No one's ever accused you of being a particularly good bartender, that's for sure.

Ezra turns to look at you when he hears your footsteps, a bright smile lighting up his face.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he teases, and pushes the bacon around with a spatula. "I cannot emphasize enough how divine it was to wake up with a soft cushion beneath me rather than dirt. I could much too easily let myself get used to this, and I think Cee here agrees with me on that account. Don't you, birdie?"

The girl nods, but you don't notice it. The color has drained from your face and you feel a frantic, sinking feeling in your chest.

"What did you say?" you ask, pushing yourself off the wall and looking at Ezra with wide eyes.

He looks back, brow furrowed, confused. "I believe I said that I could get used to this...?"

You turn away from him and look at the girl. She's looking at you too, now, concern evident in her eyes.

"What did he say your name is?"

She blinks. "My name's Cee."

Your hand flies up to your mouth, and you feel tears gather at the corners of your eyes. It can't be. But she's the right age, and her hair's the same, and...

"What was your father's name?"

She looks even more confused now. "Um, it was Damon."

Oh my god. "Oh my god. You're Cee."

The two of them stare at you like you've grown a second head. You laugh, realizing how foolish you look.

And then you give her your name.

Cee's eyes light up like nothing you've ever seen before, and she nearly launches herself off of the counter stool to wrap you in the tightest hug you've ever been given. You laugh again, a loud and boisterous thing, as happy tears spring unbidden and flow onto your cheeks. Her hands grip the back of your shirt as you hold her head to your chest with both hands.

"I never thought I'd see you again," you mutter through the tears, pressing your nose against her hair. It's her. It's really her. Suddenly you think Ezra was right about divine providence, that the three of you were meant to find each other, the event arranged by some mighty cosmic force.

"Dad told me you were dead," she cries, as the two of you collapse to the floor. Propriety suddenly no longer concerns you, not now that you're cradling your long-lost little sister.

"I'm so sorry, Cee. I'm so sorry."

You can't say much more than that. There are simultaneously too many and not enough things to say to the last family you have left in the universe, to this girl who was so much like you even in the first moments of knowing one another.

Above you, Ezra clears his throat.

"While this is clearly an unexpected but happy reunion that I hate to interrupt, I do have to ask how you girls know one another, so that I might not be kept in the dark about your relation?"

You look up at him as you move backwards to rest your shoulders against the wall. His dark eyes look down at you from above, and though you've never felt so small, you've also never felt happier in your life.

"She's my sister," you answer with a smile. "Same mother, different father. We were separated when our mother died. She was hardly more than a baby."

Ezra's eyes grow soft at that, and he nods. You begin to think that maybe now you both have something to thank the other for. You may have saved his life, but his radio transmission brought you Cee.

You tighten your arms around her, and place a kiss on the crown of her head. You aren't sure how long you sit there - long enough to have surely lost your job when you don't show up for your shift, but you can't find it within yourself to care. This is all that matters to you right now.

The day passes with you and Cee doing most of the talking, for once. Ezra seems content to just sit and listen, though you catch him a few times looking at you like he did in the darkened hallway last night.

After lunch, he makes a point to sit next to you on the couch, arm draped across the cushions behind you.

If Cee notices, she doesn't say anything. You still aren't sure where your relationship with Ezra stands, but in the midst of sharing stories with Cee and learning about her life, you don't find time to sort that out.

Dinner comes and goes again, and the topic of the future comes up.

"When do you think you'll be healed enough to travel again, Ezra?" you ask, as the three of you work on cleaning the dishes.

He shrugs. "I'm fit to travel right now," he answers, and you give him a look. No, he isn't. He chuckles. "Alright, sugar. Maybe another day or so. The serum they gave me to apply daily has been working wonders, I must admit."

You nod, and look over at Cee. "Where do you want to go? The Ephrate? I have no doubt you could get into the school there."

She perks up at that. "You think so? Would you bring me?"

"Why not? I'm a traveler anyway, and I think it's high time I got out of this station. Ezra?" You look over to him, but he's already looking at you.

You feel his hand ghost over the small of your back. "I would be most honored to accompany you both to the Ephrate, if you'll have me."

"Yes, of course," you reply, leaning into his touch, and you turn back to the task at hand.

Later on, when Cee is in bed listening to her music, and Ezra's in his room, you sit on your bed thinking about what's to come. In order to apply to the school, Cee will need a guardian contact, and a record of education. You hope she can pass the entrance exam and submit a writing sample, and that that will be enough. Maybe you can talk some of your former professors into considering her.

It’s a pretty long trip from the station to the Ephrate, even with a ship that can travel at hyper speed. You can’t help but wonder what will become of Ezra after you get Cee set up in school.

The man captivates you, to put it plainly. His poetic manner of speaking and the gentle fire of his passion, when directed at you, gives you a feeling unlike any other you’ve experienced before. You’ve met plenty of men in your life. None have ever made you feel such a way.

Before you can think better of it, while the desire to see his sleep-ruffled hair still sits at the forefront of your mind, you get out of bed and leave your room. Quietly, so as to not disturb Cee, you knock on his door.

”Come in!” he calls out from somewhere within.

You slide the door open, slip inside, and close the door behind you. Ezra is sitting up in bed, looking at you.

”To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing such a beautiful woman enter my chamber in the night?” The question is teasing, good-natured, but the compliment still makes your stomach swoop.

You smile, and walk to where he lies in bed, leaning against the dresses. “I wanted to thank you, Ezra. You brought my sister back to me, which is something I’ll never be able to repay you for. Can we call it even?”

He laughs at that. “Sure we can, sweet thing. You know, when I first saw you in that recovery room, I thought I recognized you from somewhere, and that my brain had done me the disservice of erasing all memory of you. I now realize it was because you and Cee are so much alike. I haven’t known her for much longer than I’ve known you, and it remains a miracle that she has given me even a modicum of trust, but I see the relation between you clear as a bell now.”

You have to smile at that. It warms your heart to know you didn’t imagine it, that someone else noticed it too.

Ezra reaches out then, in the dim light, and you step forward. Thinking he's reaching for your hand, you extend yours - but he bypasses it completely and wraps his hand around the back of your upper thigh, thumb brushing against your sleep shorts. A giggle escapes your lips as he pulls you in even closer to him. Ezra leans forward and presses his face against your midsection, nose just next to your belly button.

Confused, but certainly pleasantly surprised, you place your hands on his head and thread your fingers through his dark curls. Gently you massage his scalp, not quite understanding this sudden show of affection. It's different than last night, though you can't exactly express how.

You decide you're really enjoying seeing these different sides of Ezra when the two of you are alone.

When you happen to massage a certain spot right behind his ear, Ezra groans, a low sound that ripples through your bones. His grip tightens, and you feel his next words more than you hear them.

"Come here, little one," he murmurs into your stomach, nosing at the hem of your shirt. The pet name makes you clench, desire flooding through your center.

He pulls you closer, shifting his face away so he can guide you down onto the bed. You swing one leg over his waist just as he slides his hand up to grip your ass, turning you further so you're on your back next to him. He's on his side, propped up by his elbow, leaning over you.

You're breathless, staring up into those infinite brown eyes.

"You have consumed my every waking thought since the moment I first saw you" he says softly, his voice a low purr that awakens some unknown part of yourself. You turn into him, resting a hand on his side, and he presses his nose against your cheek.

"I must have been a saint in a previous life to have earned this sweet embrace," he continues, breath warm against your face. "I want to learn you, to study you with the same vigor the ancients studied and examined the mind. I want to know you, sweet girl, in every way possible.

"But I must be truthful with you, because I could no longer live with myself if I were not. I am not a good man. I have lived a long life of violence and amorality, and death and deceit seem to follow me hand-in-hand. You are so young, little one, full of life and vitality, future bright ahead of you. I do not deserve you, and you certainly deserve better than me."

His words are like needles piercing your heart. You slide your hand up his chest to cup his face, tenderly stroking his cheekbone. You draw him away ever so slightly so you can look him in the eye.

"You and I are not so different, Ezra," you hum, making sure that he keeps the eye contact. "I have been on that same path, of death and violence, for years. I've lived for none but myself."

You slide your thumb across his lower lip, soft and pink and tempting.

"Let me live for you."

You punctuate your whispered plea by drawing him back down and pressing your lips to his. He gasps into the kiss before returning it with passion amplified twofold. His leg slides over your midsection to stabilize himself, knees pushing in between your own so your thighs stretch open around his.

Ezra deepens the kiss almost immediately. You surrender to his lips, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other tangles again in his hair. His mouth is hot, tasting faintly of mint but mostly a sweet flavor you attribute only to him. You let out a soft moan at the feeling building in your cunt, wet and warm and yearning for him, and he uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. Ezra licks at your teeth, seemingly in an attempt to map out every part of you that he can.

All you're able to do is moan, melting into him like a candle to a flame.

You feel Ezra shift a little, followed by profanity muttered softly against your lips. He draws away, and you open your eyes to see him clenching his jaw.

"'M still not fully adjusted to not having a kriffing arm," he grumbles, frustration evident in his eyes. You hum, hurting for him, wanting to take his pain away.

"What do you need, Ezra?" you ask. "What can I do?"

He presses his forehead against yours and sighs. "I want to see you, sweet thing. I want to touch you."

You flush, understanding the meaning of his words and feeling your panties grow wetter at the implication.

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes." You push at his shoulders, urging him to sit back. He does so, sitting back. You rearrange your legs so that yours rest outside of his, and sit up. Your thighs are tucked against his hips in a position that feels much closer than before - you can just barely feel the heat of his groin against your own. A breath stumbles its way out of your lungs, chest heaving.

Before you can think any further on your insecurities, you grasp the hem of your shirt and draw it up and over your head. Ezra's eyes light up, glance at your face, darken considerably as he looks down again, and then he's on you once more.

His arm wraps around you tightly, hand pressing firmly into your ribs, and it's then that you really take in the size difference between you and him. As his head dips to press his lips against your breasts and nipples, you can't help but shudder at the way his body curls over your own. You feel distinctly small, in a way that would usually frighten you but instead makes you shiver.

This position is clearly more comfortable for Ezra, because he becomes more vocal as he lavishes your tits with attention.

"Gods, little one," he murmurs against the top of one of your breasts, tongue darting out to taste your peaked bud, "your body is divine, the sweetest fruit in the universe." He pauses to suck at your nipple, drawing it into his mouth, and the sight of it forces a whine from your throat. Something about it is so perfect, so perverse, for a man who's always been so sweet, that you can't help but press your clothed cunt down on his cock, the shape of which you can feel burning and hard like an iron through your clothes.

Ezra lets out a choked growl at that, a deep rumbling sound that you immediately commit to memory, in case of the unfortunate event that you're not blessed to ever hear it again. He releases your teat, now spit-soaked and throbbing, and looks at you with eyes so dark you hardly recognize them. His brows are drawn together, teeth bared like a feral animal.

"That's what you do to me," he growls, moving his hand down to cup your ass, squeezing harshly. You gasp, and press into him, bare chest to bare chest. "Feel my dick against your little pussy, baby? Think it can fit?"

You nod frantically, knowing your shorts are soaked through, as his filthy words send your mind reeling. You're not capable of thoughts beyond him and this any longer.

Ezra uses his grip on your ass to press your cunt against him once more, and he rolls his hips up into you in a mimicry of what he'd like to do you. You moan, completely unashamed, and drop your head to tuck your face against his shoulder.

"Please," you whine, nearly unaware of the words coming out of your mouth. It's quiet, hushed, this next utterance, and it's passed through your lips before you can think twice about it.

"Please fuck me, daddy."

Ezra freezes. It takes you a moment too long to realize what you've said.

"What did you say?" Ezra asks, the words rumbling from somewhere in his chest.

You get a frantic feeling in your limbs, panic crawling up your throat. Great, you think, I've messed it all up. He probably thinks I'm some freak, screwed up in the head.

You're broken from your spiraling thoughts by the feeling of his lips on your neck, teeth digging into the space beneath your jawline.

"I asked you a question, sweet girl."

You tremble in his grasp. He's not going to let it go. "Daddy..." you whimper, and he groans.

"You really are a perfect little girl for me," he mutters as his hand slides around from your ass to the front of your shorts. You tighten your grip on the back of his neck and lean forward, thinking he intends to pull your remaining clothes down your legs.

Instead, he clenches his fist and tears them, both your shorts and your panties, from your pussy. You yelp as he does so, and watch as the fabric goes flying somewhere off to the side.

"There you are, sweet thing," he murmurs, leaning back to look at you, hand back in position on your bare ass. "Look at you. Filthy and perfect for daddy, aren't you? A fantasy come to life, placed in my lap by the gods themselves."

You moan once more, pressing your bare cunt against the outline of his cock in his thin sleep pants. He reaches down to pull it free, and as you keep your balance against him, you look down and see perhaps the biggest dick you've ever laid eyes on. Ezra chuckles, watching your reaction.

"You ready, baby? Want me to fill you up, fuck you like you need?"

You nod, and lean in to press your face against the crook of his neck again. "Please," you whine. "I need your big cock in my pussy."

The words are completely unlike you - something about Ezra has awoken a completely submissive, unfiltered side of yourself you didn't know existed before. Sure, you knew you wanted him, and weren't a stranger to sex, but this is an entirely new personality, focused entirely on being his. It's almost like a dream, and for a moment you feel as though you're floating, with how relaxed you are in anticipation for --

Oh.

He's guided the head of his cock to your entrance, and is using his leverage on your ass to guide you slowly, slowly down. You gasp - he's certainly the biggest you've ever had, and the stretch is delicious. Ezra's restraining himself, going slow so he doesn't hurt you, but you have no such qualms.

You drop down in one fell swoop, and the way he fills you makes your eyes roll back in your head. His hand moves from your ass to around your waist, nearly encircling it entirely. He groans, loudly and deeply.

"You'll kill me like this, little one. You're just wrapped around my cock, aren't you? Desperate for it?"

You nod frantically. "Yes, daddy. Yes!"

Ezra moans at that. His hand grips your waist, teeth biting and sucking at your neck, as you push up on your thighs to lift off of him. The drag of his dick against the walls of your cunt is incredible, the head of it catching and pushing on hidden, sensitive ridges within you.

You drop down again, and begin to fuck yourself on Ezra's cock.

His hips piston up as you do so, finding and matching your rhythm with ease. His melodic voice mutters the dirtiest things you've ever heard as he slams his hips up into you.

"...That's it, sweet thing. You were made to fit on my cock, weren't you?..."

"...Wanted to do this that night in the hallway, take you right up against the wall..."

"...My strong, sweet girl, bouncing like a whore on daddy’s cock -- gods, look at your tits..."

You feel your climax building, rising like a fire about to consume you from the inside out. Ezra is close, too, from the way his hips stutter and his breathing becomes ragged.

"Sweet thing..." he groans, slowing his thrusts. "I can't... inside you..."

You shake your head. You know he's clean, since he was tested at the med-bay when he went in for the operation. And besides...

"I've got the implant, daddy. Come in me, please."

Ezra finishes with the most beautiful moan you've ever heard, and you come nearly at the same moment. It's an ethereal, heavenly experience, like the two of you have ascended and joined the gods who so graciously brought you together.

You fall asleep tucked into his chest, warm under his blanket, with the smell of him and you and both of you lulling you into the most peaceful sleep you've had in your life.

A month later, you and Ezra and Cee sit at a mahogany wood table, filling out a holo-tablet with the form for Cee's entrance into your alma mater on the Ephrate. Your sister is already taken with the place, and you couldn't be happier for her.

"Now it wants me to put in a parent or guardian's name," she says, stylus hovering over that section. The cursor blinks as it waits.

You're about to tell her to skip it, but Ezra speaks up before you can.

"Put my name down," he offers, and she looks over at him. "Is that okay with you?"

Cee nods, a genuine smile brightening her features. She turns back to the screen with haste.

"Ezra Stallard," he adds simply.

You look over to him, pleased with this revelation.

As you watch Cee enter Ezra's full name into the blank and select Guardian, you get a chill up your spine. Despite yourself, you think back to that night, and you know Ezra's thinking the same when his hand moves over to rest on your thigh.

You can't wait to have your ship to yourselves; the joy of seeing your sister thrive in a new setting is followed only by the anticipation of what is to come. You and Ezra have made no plans for the future yet - all you know is that he will be with you, and that's the only guarantee you need.

For the first time in a very long time, your heart sings.

#ezra x you #ezra (prospect)#ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra x female reader #prospect #prospect fanfiction #prospect (2018)#ezra x reader smut #pedrp pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fic #ezra fic #ezra prospect x reader #canon compliant #wrote this while listening exclusively to grimes #take that as you will

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hb-writes · 3 years

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Ignored Advice

Summary: Part II of the Alphabetical Outcast Series. Sylvie (OC) is the eldest child of Hugo Bridgerton, a cousin raised alongside the infamous Bridgerton brood. Born in-between Daphne and Eloise, Sylvie has made it her mission to delay her season again and again. As her deadline to put a stop to her entering the marriage mart this year approaches, Benedict gives his cousin a little pep talk.

Characters: Sylvie Bridgerton (OC) & Benedict Bridgerton

Bridgerton Appreciation Week Prompt: Do it, be bold.

Part I - The Firstborns - Sylvie Bridgerton & Anthony Bridgerton

Part II - Ignored Advice - Sylvie Bridgerton & Benedict Bridgerton

Benedict caught Sylvie’s approaching palm half a moment before it collided with his shoulder, her attempted slap and the groaning of his name an exaggerated response to his sudden presence in the garden she believed to be occupying all on her own, a rather silly assumption seeing as it was nearly impossible to singly inhabit a single space in Bridgerton House, not with ten children, if you could still refer to them that way, regularly milling about its halls and grounds. Even with several of them being married or having their own quarters, the house never seemed empty or quiet.

Suffice to say, Sylvie shouldn’t have been surprised that someone had come upon her in the middle of her endeavor to forge a dirt patch into the perfect lawn with her incessant pacing.

“Don’t do that!” she shouted at Benedict’s playful grin, freeing her hand from his grip to swat at him again as her heartbeat slowed. “You’re always sneaking about.”

Despite being a large man and the tallest of the Bridgerton brothers, Benedict was quiet and he moved in ways that weren’t always noticed, blending in as the color green could do among certain shades of blue, or a pink among certain purples. Somewhere along the line, he had taken a certain liking to using his natural stealth to rile his siblings and cousins.

“I have just as much of a right to enjoy my mother’s lovely flowers as you have.”

Some would argue that Benedict Bridgerton had more of a right to occupy the space, that as second in line to the title, it was nearly his garden, and the cousin whose thoughts he had interrupted had not a single claim on the flora, but Benedict had no interest in his claim. He’d happily settle for being second in line.

“What are you so worked up over this morning?” he asked when his comment received nothing but a return to pacing, the space over which she marched stunted by a few steps due to his presence.

“Who says I’m worked up?”

Gregory and George and Hyacinth had told him so over his eggs, but Benedict had no plans to tell Sylvie that, and he had no need to seeing as she’d just swatted at him, supplying him with plenty of evidence to support his accusation. Benedict simply raised his eyebrows and gave her a gentle smile, something not quite as smug as a smirk gracing his lips.

It took only a moment for Sylvie to give in, her shoulders heaving as she took a seat on the bench, hiding her face in her hands while Benedict moved to occupy the space beside her.

“I suppose I’m not so subtle.”

Benedict snorted at that. Bridgertons weren’t very good with subtleties. They communicated more in grand gestures and loud declarations, even the passive aggressive moments were rambunctious and obvious in nature, with silent treatments emphasized by the blatant actions that accompanied them.

“I shouted at the little ones over breakfast,” Sylvie offered. “They were being dreadfully vexatious. I couldn’t help myself.”

Benedict nodded. The kids towed a fine line between entertaining and exasperating. It had once been them getting chastised for their boisterous nature at the breakfast table, and some mornings it still was, but more often it was the youngest set with their endless source of energy primarily used for running about and arguing and shouting. He didn’t really fault her for a little outburst.

“And my deadline is approaching,” she mumbled.

“Deadline?”

Sylvie rolled her eyes.

“Now Ben, don’t pretend Anthony hasn’t already told you,” she answered, figuring that Anthony had pulled his brother into his office at the earliest opportunity after their last discussion. “I suppose he’s employed you to convince me to give this up and fall in line.”

Sylvie was surprised the whole lot of her elder cousins hadn’t descended upon her to bring her along to Anthony’s way of thinking. She had been expecting conversations with each of them, but the subject hadn’t been raised since she left Anthony’s office nearly two weeks before.

Benedict leaned back as he set his ankle over his knee. “Well, I must admit you having your season would go a long way in helping my dear mother forget that she has a marriageable son.”

“But?” Sylvie prompted.

“But I understand your plight.”

Society acted as if a woman’s life didn’t begin until one was married, until one was a wife and a mother, but to Sylvie marriage felt like an end, like the death of some part of her she hadn’t even gotten a proper grasp on yet, a part of her she felt certain was a part she rather liked. She wasn’t ready to let it go.

It didn’t make any difference to see that her married cousins were deeply in love, seemingly changed only for the better by the matches they’d made because Sylvie didn’t trust the odds of that sort of happiness for herself.

Of course, much of the married Ton kept up appearances, seemingly content in their hastily made matches, but Sylvie didn’t trust appearances either.

Appearances showed a world of people happy, a world of people content with their station and society and their lot in life, but she knew well enough that most people weren’t happy. Most people didn’t receive a true love match. Most people didn’t have a life that showcased the things they truly loved. Most people had lives that showcased the things society expected, the majority of people more engrossed with impressions and opinions of society than anything else.

The Ton smiled and danced and wed, but beneath all that was a layer of torment.

Sylvie knew Benedict understood that, knew they had a bit of shared appreciation for that bit of truth because Sylvie knew of his art, had seen the remarkable portraits he’d done of each of them, and though Benedict hadn’t been able to take her complimentary words to heart, hadn’t been ready to really accept praise for his art, Sylvie knew they shared a certain understanding about the world.

Sylvie envied Benedict a bit for knowing what his passion was when she had neither knowledge nor the ability to act on such a thing, and furthermore, she begrudged her cousin just a bit for not acting on it, for keeping his talents and desires hidden, for keeping up the very appearances they knew were expected.

“So, you can speak with—”

“Anthony? Oh, no. Definitely not,” Benedict said.

“But you—”

“I haven’t convinced Anthony of a single thing in my entire life. I can’t imagine I’ll have any luck where you haven’t.”

“You're his brother.”

“And you’re his favorite cousin.”

“I believe George is everyone’s favorite.”

“Well, George is a bit easier to manage, I suppose,” Benedict said, tilting his head back and forth as he considered it, his face scrunched a bit. “A more of a charming demean—”

The heel of Sylvie’s palm made contact with her cousin’s shoulder again, a barking laugh pouring from Benedict’s lips as he nudged her back.

“You prove the point far more often than you’re aware.”

“Yes, and that’s all the more reason for me to not enter society. I’m afraid I’m simply not ready, not well-behaved enough.”

Benedict hummed. “Yes, Anthony did mention you were exploring that angle.”

“I’m not exploring any angles,” she answered. “It’s simply my natural charm, as you’ve just said.”

“Maybe use some of that charm on my mother, then. Present your case? Prove your point? You know she’s the one who needs the convincing. If she agrees, Anthony has no choice.”

Sylvie shook her head. “I’m not ready.”

“To tell mother or to marry?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”

Benedict set a hand on her shoulder. “Do it at the weekend, then. Wait until she’s relaxed, away from everything reminding her of the impending season. Present your argument then. You may recall a rather wise Bridgerton once said ‘do it, be bold.’ I believe the same words apply here.”

Sylvie snorted, unable to prevent herself from smiling at the memory of late summer nights passed on the swings with Benedict and Eloise, cigarettes passed between the three of them and a handful of secrets too.

“If I recall, you ignored that wise Bridgerton’s perfectly splendid advice because you’re an absolute fool who refuses to see reason.”

Benedict’s eyebrows shot up, but an easy smile held on his face as he shook his head.

“Ah, yes, and there we have your natural charm on display once again.”

#bridgerton appreciation week #bridgertonevent2021 #BridgertonWeek2021 #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #benedict bridgerton #sylvie bridgerton

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

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HASO, “Your Choice.”

I am having a lot of fun with this arc. Writing it has put me in a good mood, so I hope you like it as well :)

He walked the halls of the Oxystation with a gun slung over his front hanging from a shortened tac sling around his neck and shoulder. He rested his arms and hands against the weapon as he walked down the hall. The gun was more of a redundancy than anything, if any unwanted alien was able to breach the hull of the station with the armored patrol outside than his gun was just a token sign of resistance. Of course, there was always the possibility that one of the patients would become violent and attack a staff member, but that possibility was quite low, even lower than it was in human mental health clinics. Only five percent of the mentally ill population was any sort of danger to anyone but themselves, and a large percentage of that would still, likely, never do anything bringing that number down somewhere closer to one percent.

With aliens it was even less likely, they weren’t naturally aggressive like humans, so when their mental health tanked, it tended to do it with extreme anxiety and something that looked sort of like depression, though the different species presented the illness differently.

Working at the Oxyclinic had been good for him. It hadn’t been long until his enthusiasm for alien life had come trickling back in, and his fear had been discarded like a sock with a hole in it. He had even offered to help with the oxytheropy that the psychologists were offering. If anything was gong to get rid of his lingering fear of aliens, it was probably going to involve spooning one.

A weird way to deal with internalized fear but there you had it.

The oxystation wasn’t just for the oxytheropy. Human and alien psychologists were taking the time to learn about other species, and put together differing treatment plans for their patients. There was a high turnover rate, and not all the people who came to the clinic ended up staying, not all of them needed oxytheropy, and not all of them would do well having it considering that some of the fear the patients had often centered their issues around humans. To his surprise, he found that a lot of it centered around the Drev war.

He looked down at his watch and took a sharp right turn down the nearest hallway entering the guard quarters just as his watch reached the hour.

“Morning LT.” Someone called and he waved a hand.

“Anything to report?”

“Nothing, all is quiet as usual.”

He ejected the magazine of his gun, and checked the chamber to make sure it wasn’t still loaded before racking it in the safebox as one of the other men stepped up to take his place on patrol.

The other group of men and women looked up at him from where they sat around a table playing cards, “Want us to deal you in.”

Adam shook his head walking over to his locker and pulling out a fresh pair of light blue scrubs, “No I promised the doc I would help today.”

The other humans shook their heads and rolled their eyes, “leave it up to you to want to spoon aliens.”

“Spooning aliens is a lucrative job. You should try it sometime, maybe you’d finally have enough money to buy the bag you’ve always wanted.”

“Bag?”

“YEah the nice one to cover your face.” he shut the locker and grinned at the car players to let them know it was all in good fun before turning towards the bathroom, where he changed and stepped back out. The scrubs were very breazy in comparison to his guard uniform and he shivered slightly returning to his locker.

It was important for people working on the ward to be completely unarmed, and for the humans to look as non threatening as possible. A strict list of instructions urged them not to smile with their teeth, and to keep their hands and feet covered at all times. He wasn’t entirely sure if the fuzzy socks and mittens were entirely necessary for that, but apparently some of the aliens interpreted human nails as claws, and some genius had thought that covering them up like this was very nonthreatening.

Looking in the mirror he had to admit it worked.

In his light blue scrubs and the fuzzy white mittens, he looked more like the easter bunny than he did a killer.

But then again, in real life he didn’t look much like a killer either.

He turned to walk out the door flipping off the people geering at him before remembering that he was wearing a mitten, which kind of negated the point of the gesture.

From there he wandered back up the hall and was buzzed into the ward after waving to the camera. He went through a few metal detectors which pinged on his leg, but they let him through anyway as he stepped into the hall and up to the staff room where the other workers and a few psychologists were having a break.

He took a seat in a chair and idly watched the TV.

HE looked around at the people who wore similar clothes as him and noted, not for the first time, that it took a special kind of person to do this job. All of these people were remarkably docile and relaxed people, and as far as he knew the vast majority of them had no shame. Despite humans being prone to cuddling pretty much anything and everything, its was pretty hard to spoon an alien and not feel awkward about it, but these people right here, they either enjoyed it or they were damn good at faking it.

Adam wasn’t good at faking anything so he was the former.

HE shifted slightly in his seat thinking about some of the aliens on the ward before his mind inevitably shifted to…. To him…. The alien that he dreaded seeing the most…. A big, tall hulking creature that wandered his nightmares and made his leg ache.

The Drev.

The Drev with eyes like the thing that had stolen his leg.

He put a hand to his head feeling a bit dizzy. He had only had one PTSD related panic attack since getting here, and that was only because he had been accidentally exposed to the Drev unexpectedly one day and without knowing that he was on the ward. It had been embarrassing for him as he tried not to let anyone know about his condition, but based on that incident he had been forced to come clean.

Ever since that incident he had been quietly forcing himself to get closer and closer to the Drev despite the psychologists telling him that it was perfectly acceptable for him to step off the ward if the Drev was on.

But adam didn’t like that mentality much.

He had always felt, ever since returning from the Drev war, that people were too soft on him. They always sat there and told him that it was fine and whatever he needed to do was important, that he couldn’t blame himself if he couldn’t handle something. They were all very forgiving and very understanding, but that's not what he wanted. At some point, he felt that it was acceptable to get up in someone's face and tell them that: no you aren't doing good enough and that you behavior isn’t ok.

He wanted people to ask more of him, not less, and he wanted to get better not stay stagnant.

If other people wanted to spend their days medicated and avoiding the things that made them hurt than that was their decision, but he planned on healing all the way.

It was a thought that he espoused only for himself and did not apply it to others.

Their mental health was their business.

Either way, he was going to make something out of this, and had slowly been approaching the Drev on the ward over time. He didn’t know if the Drev knew, and it didn’t matter to him so much, but he did have a bit of his own agenda.

The door creaked open, and one of the psychologists stuck her head into the room looking around for a quick moment before her eyes fell on Adam.

“Lieutenant, can I speak with you for a moment.”

For a second Adam’s heart stopped a little. Was he in trouble? Had he done something wrong?

He tried looking at her face to see any signs of displeasure, but she was a difficult woman to read, so he stood slowly and followed her from the room and back into her office where he took a seat.

She sat across from him at her desk hands folded together. SHe looked him over with eyes that seemed to bore into his sole, “How are you doing, Adam.”

He shifted nervously in his seat, “Er… I thought I was a staff member not a patient.”

“Just humor me.”

“I’m good.”

“Any panic attacks recently.”

“No ma’am.”

“Are you being truthful.”

“You and I both know I’m shit at lying.”

She grunted and clasped her hands together looking at him with a stern expression.

HE shifted awkwardly in his seat, “What” “I have… a mission for you, though it is one I worry might jeopardize your mental health if it goes wrong, and the mental health of my patient as well. If it goes right however I think it would do BOTH of you a world of good. What I would be asking you to do is…. Of questionable ethicality.”

That made him nervous. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean by asking you to jeopardize your mental health, I could be in serious violation of a couple of major statutes in my field, however assuming you do it willingly it might not be so bad.”

Despite his apprehension, his curiosity won out, “Go on?”

“Kanan.”

“Cannon, WHat?”

“No, Kanan, the name of the Drev on the ward.”

Adam shifted in his seat, stomach churning, “Oh…. go on.”

“Have you noticed he has a limp.”

“I…. suppose I haven't looked closely enough.”

“Well he does, and you want to guess where he got that limp?”

He had a pretty good guess, “The war?”

“Exactly.”

“And….. I suppose you think….” He trailed off

“He lost everything during the war Adam, his mate, his honor, his home. He is injured and exiled, and at this moment there are very few people in the galaxy that can even partially understand what he has gone through.” She leaned back in her chair looking at him, “I think, that having someone like you to speak with about what happened would be,.... Beneficial to both of you.” She paused, “DId you know that human and Drev psychology is surprisingly similar….”

He shook his head, “Well it is, and I think the two of you would recover faster if you had something to work on together.”

“With all due respect ma’am, my papers say I’m recovered.”

“The UNSC isn’t exactly known for their in depth medical reviews Lieutenant. I know they overlooked some things. Either way, it’s your choice.”

***

Adam stood in front of the door. His hands were sweating leaving the inside of the mitten’s sticky and unpleasant. He felt nauseous, but swallowed to hold it down eyes wide as he stared at the door. What was he doing? What was he doing?

He took a deep breath.

Not being a coward, that’s what he was doing. He reached a hand up and knocked on the door before he could chicken out. There was silence and the knock seemed to echo down the hall for eternity. He waited, and waited, and waited, and assumed at some point maybe he had caught the large alien sleeping, but then the door opened.

His human knee went weak, and it was only the prosthetic that kept him standing as he stared up at the huge, hulking figure.

Adam was, tall 6,2 to be precise, but this hulking behemoth had to have been around or over nine feet tall, with blood red armor, and four bulging arms. It stared at him with bright golden eyes that brought echoes of his past welling up into his ears. He felt as if he was about to fall over, but then the creature turned and trundled back into the room, snapping Adam out of his trance.

He was breathing hard, and he thought about turning back, but instead, he stepped softly into the room leaving the door open just as crack as he moved inside.

The room around him was dark, and the floor was scattered with crumbled pieces of paper.

A box of markers lay on the ground to one side. He looked down to see he was stepping on a discarded piece of paper, and stepped back to look down, realizing the drawing there was of a tree, with striped bark and spiraling branches. It looked like something out of a Dr Seus book though he recognized it as an Anum/ Anin coiltree.

He crouched down to pick the paper up.

He looked up to see the Drev had returned to the edge of his cot and was sitting down, a shapeless form in the dark.

“You mind if I turn the light on?” Adam asked.

At first the Drev didn’t answer, but then he took a long breath through those strange holes in his neck and managed a deep, rumbling, “THe colors are too bright.”

Adam paused then, “Well neither of us can see very well in the dark and, he held up the page, drawing in the dark can’t be easy.”

There was a grunt.

“I’m going to turn the lights on.”

The Drev didn’t stop him, and as he did the room lit up showing even more pages scattered over the floor, all drawings of Anin some of them sloppy, some of them, quite artistic for a species he hadn’t thought practiced art.

He knelt down to examine a few of them, “Not bad.”

He picked up one of the pictures to examine it.

“This looks like the valley between the volcanic belts.”

The Drev turned to look at him, and when his eyes fell on Adam, the page slipped from his hand floating back to the floor.

The uncanny deepness of it’s golden eyes unnerved him.

“You were in the war?”

Adam’s hands were shaking, but he clasped them together to hide that fact.”

There was a long silence between them, and then he reached down pulling up the leg of his scrubs to reveal the titanium construction underneath, “I was.”

The Drev seemed surprised and looked up at him.

“You were one of them.” he said it very flatly, and Adam suddenly grew very worried that the Drev would kill him in revenge for being part of the operation that decimated his people.

“One of your number killed my father.”

Fuck

He went to back away but the Drev just looked down.

He sighed very deeply, “You were a strong and worthy opponent. We never had a chance.”

His voice was not bitter, or hate filled. There was some measure of regret behind his words but not enough to constitute anger. And when Adam looked at the creature, he could do nothing but feel sorry for him.

He quietly walked over trying to avoid the pages on the floor and then, unsure, sat next to the large figure.

Adam was not used to feeling small, but sitting next to the huge figure of the drev, he felt very tiny indeed.

The inside of the gloves were absolutely soaking, and with some measure of annoyance he tossed them off and onto the floor.

He wiped his palm on his shirt, reached out, fingers trembling and rested a hand on the Drev’s arm.

“You want to tell me about it? I.. My people didn’t exactly take the time to understand yours….. Now that I think about it it hardly seems fair.”

The Drev snorted ,”My mother believed that war was supposed to be fair, but my father understood that there was always inherent unfairness in battle…. The two of them didn’t get along towards the end. I think I agree with my father, to assume that your species would abide by our rules of combat was…. Ignorant of us.” The Drev turned to look at him, “Your species is much more efficient at war than mine is.”

His hands weren’t shaking anymore.

And he realized that, when he looked at this Drev, He didn’t see much of an enemy at all.

But he did see someone broken by the war…. Just like him.

He looked down at his feet, and when he did his eyes came across another drawing. This one of a drev, It really only had an outline since it’s carapace seemed to be white, and the way it had been rendered with such delicate care, made it pretty clear to Adam who it might have been.

He picked it up quietly.

“You…. want to tell me about her?”

The Drev turned to look his eyes resting on the picture. Adam didn’t think up to this point he could read Drev facial expressions, but the welling of sadness in the creature’s face was so poignant that Adam felt his own chest tighten,

Damn the human’s heightened sense of empathy.

For a moment he thought the Drrev was going to tell him to get out, but, instead, he took the image and stared down at it, “Nechal…. Named after the moon….. She was the most glorious fighter I had ever seen in battle, strong, and graceful and powerful. She was not afraid to die, but she didn’t let that lower her guard. On the battlefield she was a goddess of war, and off…. She was…. Kind in ways that aren’t common among our people. I may have been attracted to her because of her fighting prowess, but I loved her because of the kindness she showed. Especially towards my sister… someone who needed kindness more than anyone I know.”

He took a very deep breath and when he spoke again his words were thick.

Could Drev cry? “In our people it is…. Custom not to mourn the dead who are lost in battle because their return to the spiritual realm will be glorious. It is a great honor to lose a mate in battle….” He looked down at his four hands, “But I do not feel honored…. I feel alone…. I miss her, ever day and every night I miss her, and I wish she hadn’t died…” He looked up and when he did Adam was struck by the expression of pain and grief on his face.

As if he was feeling the Drev’s pain in real time, he felt his chest clench again, and tears welled in his eyes. How could he not?

Anyone who didn’t feel the same must have had no feelings?

“I was exiled because…. I could not follow her into the afterlife…. With my injury I should have given my body over to the fire, and maybe then I'd be with her, but I just…. I couldn’t do it. I miss her every day and yet I don’t have the strength to go to her…. I am a fraud among my people, a coward and a fraud and….

“Hey! Hold on.”

The Drev went quiet and turned to look at Adam who was now gripping his arm tight in one hand.

“You think she’d want to hear you say that.”

That seemed to take the Drev off guard and he stared at Adam with some measure of confusion.

“You said she was kind wasn’t she….. Well then I doubt she'd appreciate you talking about yourself like that.”

He was quiet for some time.

“Look I…. I lost my leg during the war to…. To one of your soldiers and. It’s messed me up for a real long time. Hell you scare the daylights out of me, but I’m moving forward.”

THe Drev frowned at him, “Scared of… us… you won?”

Adam laughed, “We didn’t win anything. Nobody won, a lot of people died and a lot of people were crippled, and for what? I think about that a lot, for honor? Honor. Well maybe I don’t understand what honor means because to me, it would be something worth dying over.”

The Drev contemplated him for a long time.

“We may have won but we did it with scared soldiers like me, and broken soldiers like me. I’m probably never going to recover from the war. That’s the difference between you and me, you guys can make it through war in one piece but me…. Humans… we may be good at war but it destroys us.”

He sighed, “I guess what I am trying to say is, instead of feeling sorry for what you can’t change, why not move forward. Do something you think is worth it, do something Ne-” he stumbled over the Drev word, “Nechal would think was worth it.”

He didn’t know what he was saying, he didn’t know if what he was saying even made sense. Nerves had always made him ramble. He knew he was talking too much but he didn’t know what else to do.

The Drev looked down, and Adam. as was his training made a bit of a decision.

He shut up.

Which was a feat in itself.

Reached over and hugged the larger alien. His arms didn’t make it anywhere close to wrapping around him, but he hoped that maybe it would help?

He didn’t know.

He was kind of just a raging idiot most of the time, so his plans were usually half assed at best.

The Drev stiffened and then relaxed. Adam’s head was resting against the creature’s huge planted shoulder. It felt like hugging corded steel cables.

He would have to say that being hugged by something with four arms was a bit of an experience. Most aliens didn’t usually hug back, they were more the recipient of hugs, but it seemed that the Drev wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept, either that or he learned fast, and damn Adam felt even smaller encircled in the arms of the huge alien.

Kanan could have crushed him if he wanted, but let him go not long after to Adam’s surprise and relief.

The Drev looked at him.

He looked back

“You are strange creatures.”

He gave a weak smile, forgetting the rule about showing teeth, “So they say.”

It was a bit of a gamble but things had worked out better than the psychologist could have hoped. Drev are more receptive to self reflection than humans are. Humans like to internalize things, and their brains become obsessive. Drev have more control over their minds in many cases than humans do, so Adam’s encouragement for Kanan to do something his dead mate would think worthwhile showed results almost immediately.

To Adam’s grudging pleasure, the Drev seemed to be recovering faster than he was.

And was well on his way to recovering completely when the communication came for Adam one night while he sat lying on his bed next to Waffles, thinking about his future.

The pink roused him from near sleep and he sat up on one elbow to look at the time.

i t was only nine earth time, so he rolled onto his side and sat up, patching the communication through.

A light blue screen of holographic image filled his vision, and on the other side he could see Colonel Kelly sitting in front of him….. At least Colonel until he realized the star on her uniform.

His eyes widened slightly. He went to speak but she shook her head at him.

“I trust you are doing well Lieutenant.”

“Yes ma’am. I have no complaints.”

She nodded, “Good, good, I am sorry to intrude, but I am afraid this rest period is over for you. You are requested to return to earth on the next outgoing transport.”

He frowned and rubbed the back of his head, “Uh of course ma’am but…. Why?”

She stared at him long and hard, ‘I have a very important decision for you to make. It is one that is not going to be popular or easy, but I urge you to accept my request.”

He frowned and shook his head, “You aren't making sense, What is this all about?”

“Tensions are rising between our delegates and the GA, if we don’t do something soon, I am worried that this will devolve into infighting and eventually war. I have to work fast in order to stop this outcome, and you are the lynchpin that holds my plan together.”

“Me.” He squeaked.

“Yes, you, now Adam, be honest with me. What is your opinion on the GA and our involvement with them?”

He rubbed the back of his neck though his thoughts were adamant, “Cooperation wherever and however possible. We need them, and I believe they could due with being our allies, ma’am.”

“And if I gave you a job to try and reach that goal, would you take it?”

“I would do whatever I had to do ma’am.”

He was being truthful.

She nodded her head.

“Good then, it’s your choice at the end of the day, but if we act now, we can change everything.”

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c-rose2081 · 4 years

Text

...this is how I show love to my favorite ladies. Is...is that a bad thing? XD. I was writing a little last night and the idea of sending two of the most unprepared members of IR into a VERY deadly survival situation a la Tomb Raider style came to mind. I loved it so much I just had to do a little doodle.

I haven’t really gotten to use my very gritty artstyle in a while and friends I miss it 😢 anyway, here’s the little bit of story I was working on veeerry late last night.

~~~

When she was a girl, Penelope Creighton-Ward had a fear of blood. She nicked her finger once on the edge of a shattered porcelain teacup when she was six and nearly passed out at the sight. Thankfully Parker was right there to clean the wound, and prove that it was merely a graze. It only appeared to be gigantic to fearful eyes. Blood was a good thing — it was necessary for human function. That’s why it was important to remain inside the body. Penelope’s line of work, both during her time in the field, as well as with international rescue, numbed her to the idea of blood.

Holding the makeshift needle between two red stained fingers, Penelope squinted at its flaming hot tip with cerulean eyes. There was only a slight quiver in her hand as she used the firelight to thread a thin string of pink around its fat end, making sure the knot caught appropriately. The string she had delicately unwoven from her own skirt, and cleaned with rainwater. A proper hand stitch was another thing the aristocracy had taught her in youth. It was only proper for a woman to be able to sew.

How to sew up human flesh was entirely self taught skill.

Waving the needle in one hand as it began to smoke, Penelope turned back to her patient. Kayo was conscious still, laying with her back on the flat of a rather large rock. Despite the apparent calmness in her cat like eyes, Penny didn’t miss the way her shallow breaths hitched, nor how her cheeks puffed up slightly as she exhaled between chapped lips.

“Alright, darling, I think we’re about ready.”

Rising from her crouched position by their small fire, Penelope grabbed a rather large stick she had set aside, “here.”

Handing it to Kayo, her arm immediately waved it off.

“...don’t need it.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Penny insisted tersely, “you may have grown up on an island of boys, but this will hurt. And it will hurt very badly.”

“I’ve had worse.”

Penelope couldn’t contain her unladylike guffaw as she shook her head. Kayo couldn’t see how bad the hole in her stomach actually was. She was whacking down her pain with boyish bravado, no doubt learned from her brothers. And that simply wouldn’t do.

“Kayo. I’m going to do this, and it doesn’t matter how strong you think you are, but it’s going to be painful. And I’m not going to stop when you ask me to. Because if we don’t do something, you could die.”

The statement was cold, but it seemed to be the right approach to crack Kayo’s resolve. Penelope could see the pain swimming in her golden eyes, and trace the violent shake of her hand as she took the stick and placed it in her mouth, “good. It’s going to be difficult, but I have to ask you not to fight me to much.”

Gently taking the hem of Kayo’s shirt, Penelope began to roll it up. The blood and grit of survival had already began the slow process of knitting the fabric into the wound, and Kayo immediately tensed as a grunt warbled her throat. The wound was bad, but seemed to have slowed its seepage. Needle and thread kept firmly between her index and middle fingers, Penelope grabbed what was left of her favorite pink Chanel overcoat. It had soaked up stream water wonderfully, and the aristocrat began to clean around the gash.

It was an unpleasant experience for both of them, but Penelope didn’t stop as Kayo fidgeted and convulsed slightly in pain. They weren’t even to the worst part yet. The cut was long and haggard, not deep necessarily, hardly enough to cut any major organs, but it wasn’t pretty to look at. It ranged from the bottom of her ribs, to the top of her navel, caressing the curve of her side like a sliced Christmas ham.

“Ah, this will leave quite an impressive battle scar. Alright, Kayo. Don’t fight me, ok? Breathe, scream and cry if you must.”

Kayo seemed to scoff at the mere idea of, but as Penelope expertly pinched the tip of the wound and began her work, Kayo’s bravery crumbled into ash. Her screams of pain broke the blonde woman’s heart, but she didn’t halt her progress. Using her unoccupied arm and most of her body weight, she kept Kayo’s legs from kicking out, possibly derailing the stitch. About a quarter way though, Penelope could hear the branch between her companion’s lips creaking from the force applied to it.

“Stay strong, love. We’re almost there.”

Merely tossing her head back, Kayo answered with another guttural scream as Penelope’s fingertips felt the tedious ache of the work. How she wished they were sharing tea back at the Manor instead, but this process was necessary. She could have merely cauterized the wound, but doing such a thing without proper equipment could be unpredictable, and had a higher chance of reopening. Penelope had been stitching all her life; her work was flawless. Now was just the moment to trust in her skill.

By the time the gash was nearing its final splinters, Kayo was spent. Penelope almost thought she had passed out, if not for the white knuckled clench of her firsts.

“Alright,” tugging the end of her suture closed expertly, testing the makeshift knot, Penelope wrapped the excess thread around the end of the needle, sawing it away till it snapped, “that’s it.” Going over her work carefully, Penelope ran her finger over Kayo’s burning skin to check on the quality of her stitch. This caused the girl to quiver, though it didn’t appear to be a motion of pain.

Happy with the end result, Penelope pocketed her needle again, rising to stand and stretch out the stiffness in her back. Moving to the younger woman’s head, she gently removed the stick and tossed it towards the fire. She ignored how the pristine white wood interior had been exposed, flecks of bark pasted to Kayo’s chin from where she had been gnawing.

“There now. It’s over.”

Taking the girls cheeks, Penelope ran circles over them with her thumbs as Kayo roused back into alertness, still panting slightly as she gulped for air, “just breathe. Rest.”

#concept art #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanart #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tag team #digital art #cartoon #animated #fanart

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imperial-martian · 5 years

Text

Bruised & Broken ][ Armitage Hux x Reader ][ Part One

Warning: Please keep in mind that throughout this story many themes are going to be mentioned that will be uncomfortable for some readers. Of course I’ll list what those topics will be before each part so that you are warned before reading.

Trigger Warnings: blood, lacerations, mentions of physical harm done by another person, severe injuries, guns (if I’m missing any please let me know)

PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE, PART FOUR

Tags: @edmunds-torch, @christmasallyearsthings

The sheets rustled as you stirred from your sleep in your cramped quarters. You could hear shouting outside, the sounds of shoes crushing leaves under their and blasters being shifted in hands were enough to cause you to get up. You quickly threw on your jacket, buttoning it up so that nobody could see your plain green pajama shirt, and throwing on some boots without even bothering to replace your sweats with better pants.

The shouts began to get louder as the footsteps got closer to your quarters. With furrowed brows, you reached out for your blaster and shoved it into your belt that was sewed into the material of your jacket.

Without wasting another second you marched towards your door, throwing it open and stepping out into the warm air that surrounded you. Before you stood a few pilots that had seemed to just land on the base. Alongside them were Finn, Poe, and General Organa, as well as an unknown figure.

Their back was turned to you, clothes were torn and ginger hair completely out of place. Blood was scattered across their neck and any other visible skin on their body. Their greatcoat, which was practically torn to pieces, was falling off of their shoulders, allowing the clear uniform of the military regiment of the First Order to showcase itself.

Two pilots were holding their arms, another holding a blaster to their back as they followed General Organa to, what you assumed was the prisoner's cells. Poe and Finn trailed behind them all, keeping an eye out while watching to see if the prisoner made any move to escape.

You remainder standing by your door, assessing everything you saw and processing it. You could tell that whoever it was is a serious threat if they had to awaken General Organa from her sleep- which you had deducted due to the fact she was already in her nightwear as well as the time being 200 o'clock.

A voice had called out to you causing you to blink twice before shifting your gaze to the owner of said voice. Realizing it was Poe looking over towards you, waving a hand for you to join them, you carefully jogged forward before you stood by his side.

"Did we wake you Y/N?" Poe asked, his voice soft but firm as to not wake others. He had turned to look back at the prisoner, a scowl showing on his face and his jaw set tightly.

You tilted your head, observing the look upon Poe's face for a moment before you replied. "Yes, but that's no issue, I can fall asleep later," you waved off. "Who's the new prisoner? They must be important if you had to wake General Organa to escort them."

You heard the prisoner chuckle for a moment, and without even needing to see their face you knew that a smug grin was plastered on his face. You're eyes narrowed, huffing quietly.

The pilot behind them shoved his blaster against their back, scoffing. "I wouldn't be too proud of that," the pilot said, indicating the seriousness of his words by pressing the barrel farther into their back, causing them to wince. "That only means your treatment here is so much worse."

Poe let out a deep sigh, and you noticed that Finn had his jaw set. You were starting to get even more curious as to who this person was, but by the time Poe was about to reveal it you had reached the cell and General Organa was asking for Poe.

He gave you a side glance before walking to your General and following as she stepped off towards the side. Your attention then returned to what was taking place in front of you as the sound of keys and locks were being opened and twisted before the door of the cell opened.

The prisoner was pushed into the room, stumbling for a moment before they caught their balance and groaned, pain clearly shooting through their body. They turned around, revealing themselves as a man- although you predicted such, and even with his eyes currently closed, you could tell that they were cold and sharp.

When he opened them to reveal a blue-green color that would have sent you swooning had you not known that this person was clearly dangerous. Instead, you ignored the color of his eyes, and rather took in the icy gaze that was settled upon you. You wouldn't allow your e/c eyes to show it but a shiver of fear shot down your spine as you looked into his eyes.

You tore away from his gaze as General Organa called you over, asking to speak with you for a moment. You nodded, walking towards her and standing firm and tall.

She let out a gentle sigh, "I apologize for this sudden request Y/N, however, with the rest of our medical and guard staff sleeping I have to ask that you, Poe and Finn watch over him," she nodded towards the prisoner, "for the night."

You nodded. With no other prisoners in any cells at the base, all the guards were able to sleep for the night and you didn't want them to be awoken. God knows when was the last time they got a good night's sleep.

"Of course General Organa," you replied, voice form and a kind smile on your face. She returned it, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"Thank you Y/N," she whispered, patting you on the shoulder once before walking past you and returning to Poe and Finn, sharing a few more words with them. The pilots that had brought the prisoner had left, probably off to retire for the night since everything was now situated and the prisoner was locked in a cell.

While General Organa spoke to the other two you took the time to grab a nearby medkit and make your way over to the prisoner. You knew in the state that he was in there was no possible way of him escaping, or even attacking you. With that knowledge, you undid the extensive amount of locks before entering the cell.

You looked behind you once, catching Finn's gaze for a second- to which he took the time to nod at you in reassurance -before you turned back around to face the prisoner. Taking a step closer to him you felt yourself grown increasingly anxious, scared of what power he might really have.

You'd yet to know his rank or even his name, and the fact that you didn't recognize him was not help at all. Stopping in front of him you swallowed thickly before crouching down in front of him so you were level to his slumped body against the wall. Taking one last deep breath you placed the kit beside you, opening it and assessing its contents.

"Would you be so generous as to make this easy on the both of us, comply, and remove your greatcoat so that I can take care of any major wounds?" you asked, although never really looking for an answer.

It came silently when he began to remove his greatcoat, soft grunts and groans of pain leaving his lips as he shifted so that he could successfully remove clothing from his body. You sighed, gaining only a bit more of the skin on his neck and wrists.

"I'll heal the wounds I can see before I have to ask that you remove that uniform as well, and any other shirts that you have underneath," you informed, grabbing some bacta gel and placing it on a few of the noticeable cuts that were too deep to be cleaned with a smaller disinfecting wipe.

The man winced and made to shift away, only stopping when you looked up at him with a sharp glare. He let out a huff before settling back down and allowing you to apply the healing gel to his skin.

"Thank you," you whispered softly to him, finishing off with the last deep cut before you grabbed some removed the gloves you had put on.

The man had furrowed his brows as you whispered, looking at you curiously. "For what?" he asked. His voice was deeper than you had expected, rougher and a little quieter than you thought, but you assumed that was from the exhaustion.

You rolled your eyes. "For complying," you answered, "you're making it easier for me to get my job done."

The man nodded before closing his eyes as the stinging finally subsided. You took the time to prepare some bandages, knowing that it'll be needed for whatever else you were about to witness.

"If you could?" you asked, nodding to his uniform. He got the point and began removing it, slowly as to not agitate any of his wounds and cause them to begin to bleed again. It was when he successfully removed the uniform to the side and tossed it that you noticed the rank on its sleeve.

You couldn't help the quiet gasp that left your lips, knowing that it was the First Order's General insignia. The silver piping and black stripes seemed to shine as if the stars were reflecting off it, but it was only like that in your head because to everyone else it was just a dull marking on a uniform.

Eyes wide, you looked back at the man you had been taking care of. You couldn't help but grit your teeth, wanting to stop helping him altogether and let him suffer now that you realized that he was General Hux of the first order.

You'd heard about him before. What he's done was nothing short of horrific. He's urged for the murder of millions, he commanded the Star Killer ship and was now a commander on the Finalizer. Your jaw seemed to clench as you looked back at him, your e/c eyes no longer having any hint of softness in it. Instead, it was a stone-cold glare now.

Hux scoffed, knowing the look all too well. His black undershirt had been removed as well, showing his battered torso and chest. Bruises were littered along his skin, cuts were engraved into it, and old scars seemed to be present among others. Lacerations and puncture wounds, abrasions were also noticeable on his skin, but the most noticeable sign of damage was a burn that was blistering on his shoulder.

It looked older than some of his other scars, but still fresh enough to only be a day old. It was nothing like you had ever seen before, and it looked as though it was untreated, or at least not treated carefully. You knew it would leave a horrible scar.

"Would you be so kind as to stop staring and continue with the needed treatment?" Hux asked in a condescending tone, his eyes slightly narrowed and his expression bored.

You huffed, shaking your head at his tone and grabbing the needed materials to continue with your bandaging. "I'm surprised you haven't gone to the infirmary yet," you said, tending to a laceration on his stomach. Your fingers were soft as they brushed against his pale torso.

You took the time to silently notice his frame. He wasn't too muscular, nothing like a six-pack or such, but you could tell he was rather strong. Although not muscular he did have a lean but firm build. He most certainly didn't look weak, seeing as he was able to take the pain that was inflicted on him, and the stinging you were causing, without screaming.

Without helping it you also took the time to look at his face, taking in the hair that fell on his forehead, and the dried blood that was around his lip, nose, and eyebrow. You sighed, having no clue how somebody could take so many hits and bruises without so much as whimpering. The only sounds that left his lips were winces, groans, and grunts, and even they weren't nearly as loud as you thought they should be.

Shaking your head once more you looked into his eyes. "Turn around," you ordered which made him grin slightly- although barely recognizable. You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Just do it so I can see your back."

After cleaning the majority of his wounds and wrapping them up in bandages you had one left. With a sigh, you asked him to turn back around and frowned as you examined it once more. A soft yawn left your lips, the tiredness you were feeling groaning more with every passing second.

You rubbed your eyes after making sure nothing that would sting resided on your hands. Focusing back on the burn at his shoulder, you tilted your head to the side. You had absolutely no idea as to what could cause a wound like this to appear.

Unsure what to even use on it you decided that some bacta gel and a bandage would have to suffice until a medic examined it in the morning. You went to apply the bacta to the wound when a hand reached up and quickly grasped your wrist. You looked at Hux, your brows furrowed for a second. You would have felt fear had you not recognized the absolute horror on his face.

"Don't," he pleaded. "I don't think I'd be able to hold back the screams if you applied it to this one," he whispered, his blue-green eyes wavering in fear.

"I have to," you replied. "If I don't this will become infected and the pain will be so much worse," you explained, looking around for a moment before you grabbed his discarded uniform. You handed it to him, urging for him to grab it. "Bite into this to silence your screams. I'll be as gentle as I can," you assured.

He nodded hesitantly, swallowing and biting into the material of his uniform. You looked at him before returning to his shoulder and carefully applying the bacta gel. You had yet to spread it but already you could feel Hux tense.

Carefully you began to spread it over the wound, his hand reaching out instinctively and latching onto the front of your jacket, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His screams were muffled by the uniform, but not well enough. They sounded just as loud as it would if he were yelling straight into your ear.

You winced, finally finishing with applying the gel before you backed away. Looking at Hux you could see the clear tears that shined in his eyes. He didn't let them fall, but the fact that they were there was enough to show his clear discomfort.

You frowned, looking back at the burn before grabbing the bandages and wrapping it across his chest and over his shoulder. Now he only winced a little, but still, they were sharp enough to get his pain across.

"What caused this?" you asked yourself in a soft whisper. It was loud enough for Hux to hear, but it wasn't really a question meant for him.

He had answered it anyways, his teeth clenched all the whole, "a lightsaber," he whispered, panting.

"A lightsaber?" you questioned, your brows furrowing as you finally secured the bandage. You finally finished but made no move to get up, confused as to who's lightsaber did this. Rey hadn't gone on any mission lately. She was busy training.

As though he read your mind, Hux answered, "Kylo Ren," and sighed, slumping against the wall once more.

"Kylo Ren?" you asked again. "But why, you're his General?" you questioned, confused.

Hux huffed, "we've never once got along. Most of these scars are from him and my-" he cut himself off, clearing his throat. He didn't finish his sentence.

You didn't push further, nodding your head and closing the kit. "I'll see to it that these get checked in the morning, or sometime in the afternoon," you reply, turning to walk out of the cell.

"Thank you," Hux called out. It wasn't like him to thank somebody, and it shocked himself as to why he had. He had to blame it on the exhaustion and the fact that for once he had felt cared for when you cleaned his wounds.

Without turning around you replied, "don't thank me. I was just following orders." Hux's face hardened, his eyes growing cold and dark once more as you walked out of the cell and locked it carefully.

You didn't spare him a glance again, walking past Poe and Finn- who had remained by the cell as you took care of Hux. You placed the kit back where you had found it before slumping against a nearby tree and closing your eyes, yawning once more.

Poe and Finn shared a glance between one another, sharing a silent message to leave you alone. They both turned back to look at Hux whose gaze was directly on you, a hand clenched in a fist by his side as his nose twitched in anger. The two turned back to look at you once more.

You were still sat against the tree, and to anybody else, it would seem as though you had fallen asleep, however, in reality, that was far from the truth. You were in deep thought and conflict. On one hand, you had just healed one of the most dangerous human being in the galaxies, but on another, you couldn't help but concentrate on his words.

"Most of these scars are from him and my-" and his what? It was driving you mad. Had he misspoken? You knew that wasn't the case, and yet you shouldn't be caring as much as you did. It didn't matter what or how he got those scars because after what he did to all those innocent people, giving the order to murder thousands, it shouldn't be affecting you so much. You shouldn't be caring. Yet you did, and it would knaw at you for the rest of the night.

You were thankful that you didn't look at his face when you had told him that you were only following an order. You didn't think you could handle seeing the hurt that he had masked under a cold glare. Guilt and pity would have chewed you from the inside out till you apologized to him, and Hux was the last person that deserved forgiveness.

#armitage hux x reader #hux x reader #general hux x reader #armitage x reader #armitage hux #general hux #hux #general armitage hux #armitage #x reader #angst #star wars x reader #star wars fanfiction #general armitage hux x reader #broken & bruised

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tatiletotesamaze · 4 years

Text

“Good Morning, how are we feeling?” Mentor XX asked, sitting down and smiling. The man who stared back at them seemed tired, worn. Perfectly understandable given the circumstances. “Not too chatty then? That’s fine. Thirsty?”

They popped the top off the thermoflask. Steam floated out, bringing with it the faint waft of spicy, warm tea. The man blinked slowly. Mentor gently pushed the full cup across the table. Their newest charge watched blankly, almost gormlessly. But inside something was still ticking along. They could see it in those dead, grey eyes.

“Everything in the Empire is built on solid foundations, isn’t it?”

***

“Tell me what happened on the Void.”

“There was a blue light and… everyone just faded away.”

“Do we have to start over, Cipher?”

“Start over? That’s what happened! You have the footage. I know the Navy wouldn’t have scrapped the computers before you got your hands on them.”

“Now now, Forty-Five-”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Temper.”

“I have a name.”

“Do you? What is it?”

“It- it’s… I…”

“Now, Cipher, what happened on the Void?”

“There was a blue light-”

“Try again.”

“There was a blue light-”

“Why don’t we take a break for now, and give it another go in a few hours? Once you’ve had a chance to calm down.”

***

“Lieutenant Rochester Windthorpe, deceased.” Mentor XX carefully laid the datapad on the table. The room was cold, grey and decorated with harsh lighting. “You seem quite lively for a dead man.”

Rochester stared at them. He’d been in this room for four hours now. Before that… various places he couldn’t remember. Days had passed. Six, he was sure, since…

He said nothing.

Mentor XX smiled. It was a warm and friendly smile and if Rochester was in a place to feel, he would have been afraid.

“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Solid grades, not exceptional, but demonstrating an analytical mind and a penchant for ‘individualism’. Certainly officer material. Though it would do you a disservice to say you got into our programme on anything but merit, I think we both know your familial connections played some part in your being accepted.” Mentor shrugged. “If nothing else, it helps to know Sith.”

And not be intimidated by them, Rochester thought.

“A shame you couldn’t stay,” Mentor paused, checking something on the datapad. “Lord Vizloch just would not allow it.”

“No…” His voice croaked. His throat was dry, jaw stiff from clenching. “I failed… I wasn’t good enough.”

Mentor XX stiffened. It should have been imperceptible. It was, almost. But he noticed it, the sudden flash of steel behind the eyes, a tightening of the smile. Do we have to start over?

“Is that so?” The smile warmed again. Mentor’s tone was soothing, underpinned with something patronizing. Like he was a child. A stupid, petunlant child. He had said the wrong thing. “Well, if you’re not good enough, I suppose we’re done here.”

***

“Cipher, forget this conversation.”

“You said that last time.”

“Did I? Well, it’s been a long day. Good night, sleep tight.”

***

“Hello, how are we feeling today?”

Mentor XX closed the door behind them. Only a flash of the bleak corridor outside, but it was enough to get the man’s attention.

“Sore.” He said.

“Are your sleeping quarters not to your liking?”

Rochester looked behind him. There was a crease in the wall where a bed would pop out, whenever it was time to sleep. The lights were always on.

“It’s fine. I fell.” A quick roll of his shoulder, to show where he’d once tripped? Slipped? He’d gone down hard, seen something.

“Bed rest and stretches.” Mentor set the datapad down and took a seat. “Now, please tell me about what happened on the Void.”

“I t- We picked up the team from [planet]. They had some cargo. The manifests for it weren’t filled in correctly, so I had to fix that before we could leave. One of the crates… it came from Belsavis… but that wasn’t noted down anywhere. I was going to fix it but Major… Major…” He stops, brows furrowed as he cannot remember the name, nor anything else about the Major.

“Forget the Major, Cipher, what happened next?”

“We left the system. We were going home to Kaas.”

“Good.”

“There was an explosion. No, the atmosphere. We vented atmosphere? But there wasn’t an alarm. I checked, nothing failed. There was a bl-”

“Calm down Cipher.”

“We lost atmosphere, somewhere near the Doldur sector. I tried to send out a distress call. There was a hull breach. There was… they were… in the walls, the floor-”

“Calm down. Cipher.”

“-bits. That’s how I fell.” His voice full of wonder, looking at his shoulder, imagining the blood that coated him, seeing the face.

“Cipher, do we have to start over?”

“Yes.” Rochester swallowed. Panic and pain rising with bile in his throat as he remembered that awful corridor. Red lights flashing, red on the floor, the walls.

He wanted to start over. He wanted to forget.

---

His rib bent. He felt the bone shift and come dangerously close to breaking. He was at his limit. It was only the first fight. The fist kept going and he rocked with it. Let it push him back and away from the followup. Not fast enough. His opponent crashed an elbow into his sternum. Rochester went to the floor in a heap, gasping.

“That’s what you want to train?”

He heard them muttering across the room. His new cybernetics were better; too good, really. His spine was more flexible and the only pain he could feel in his back was the surgical incisions, still healing. The plate from his stomach was gone. He had an armour plate over it at the moment - the plugs and muscles were delicate, taking their time. That part of him was off limits for now.

His opponent helped him to his feet. He got up, wanting nothing more than to just lie on the ground forever.

She was a little shorter than him. Well-muscled in a disarming way. She had an air of being designed; of being sculpted and molded into a weapon for any occasion. He didn’t know her name or her designation and, being in the middle of forgetting his, he’d been introduced as Red. In turn, she’d introduced herself as Grey.

She didn’t smile. She wasn’t kind. And she’d beat the living shit out of him until told to stop.

“Again.” Shadowy assessors lined the room. He was sure some of them even were real.

---

“We need to concentrate on combat abilities. I believe the asset could excel in close quarters given enough time.”

“Is that why you’ve struck the seduction practicals from the itinerary?”

“That subject isn’t strictly relevant to--”

“It’s a core part of being a Cipher. If the asset cannot make a lasting impression on the target a mission will fail.”

“If you look again, Trainer, you’ll see only certain parts of the practical have been struck.”

“I noticed, Mentor.”

“And if you check against the asset’s history, you’ll see there’s only so far we can push before that mind breaks. Irreparably.”

“We can run a mental assessment. Perhaps the control levied in a training scenario will help to overcome previous trauma?”

“The asset has been sexually active for some years now so I don’t believe that’s entirely the issue.”

“Then what, Mentor?”

“The issue of control, as you said.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Quite. Keeper?”

“I agree with Mentor, for now. Keep the adjusted itinerary. However, assessments should be carried out routinely and should the asset be deemed capable you can entrust it to Trainer. Keep it at an appropriate rank until such time as it can meet all the requirements of being a Cipher.”

“Of course, Keeper.”

“Thank you, Keeper.”

“Dismissed.”

---

“Trainer, this is Forty-Five.”

Trainer’s eyebrows creased in a brief, if obvious, loss of control. Mentor didn’t bother to admonish her.

“He’s… familiar with the theory, Mentor?” She asked, now pointedly ignoring Forty-Five.

Mentor nodded. They were as stern and emotionless as always but Forty-five could tell something was off. Perhaps Mentor was concerned he might fail? Or perhaps enjoy the studies too much. There had been mutterings about other candidates - field agents all - who were deemed a little too eager. That would not be an issue. Mentor left with nary a word goodbye.

Trainer waved him into a little room. A table, some props and…

“We’re of course aware of your personal preferences, Forty-five, but personal preferences do not apply on a mission. Do not think of this as a test,” Lie. Everything was a test. “Today we are simply gauging your inherent abilities. Mimicking romance will not be necessary here - consider that any and all types of connection are important. Now, this is my fellow Trainer, Sixty-Four. Seduce her, befriend her, whatever you see fit. I will observe.”

He nodded. The immediate panic did not subside but he was able to quash it. He sat, unsure of how to begin.

Sixty-Four took the lead. Her body language changed dramatically. Her stiff posture and cold stare disappeared. She seemed all at once carefree and her smile was a joyous one, meant for a festival or a lover.

He mirrored her. It was not easy. The muscles in his face rallied against being pulled into an unnatural smile. Memories of who he might have been looking at, once upon a time, threatened to overwhelm him. Feeling sick, his gut knotting, he twisted these visions, picking them apart and erasing the one person he most dearly wanted to see. It was over. He would have to change.

“Hi.” He said, a little laugh in his voice.

“Hey.” She said back, happy to see him.

#swtor #open thinking #writing

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bitletsanddrabbles · 4 years

Text

WIP Wednesday 2: Because I Felt Like It

...okay, I was going to save this. I was going to save this for if I ever finish this sprawling behamouth of a monstrosity of a novel.

Assuming it didn’t get cut for being completely self indulgent.

However.

I feel like being completely self indulgent and, more to the point, if it does get cut, I want everyone to have gotten to see Thomas being a thoroughly vindictive little snark face.

Enjoy.

Thomas tried not to fidget, but it was difficult. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much pent up energy. He glanced at the list of names in front of him, then at the clock. Ten minutes. It was going to feel like ten lifetimes, he was certain.

Mr. Carson was ill. Not terribly ill, Mrs. Hughes assured them. Just a bit of cold. He should be right as rain in a couple of days. In the meantime, Andrew would serve the drinks at breakfast and tea, Mr. Molesley had been prevailed upon to cover dinner, and Thomas had, with a surprising amount of relief, agreed to step down and see to the day-to-day running of things. The ledger was in order, as was the wine list. The hall boys knew their jobs well enough that he didn’t need to ride herd on them too badly. The only other major thing that wanted doing was the interviews. He’d already done one, a rather promising candidate from Derbyshire. There were two more.

He glanced at the clock again, told himself he would not smoke, and started to go over the ledger again to fill the time.

He wasn’t certain whether he hoped Mr. Moore arrived early, exactly on time, or slightly late. Not late, he thought. That would end things too quickly. He was dimly aware that the thought was exactly the sort the good people of the world disapproved of. His parents, Mrs. Hughes, Miss Baxter, Anna, they would all cluck their tongues and tell him not to be petty and vindictive.

Just then he didn’t care that much, but it still brought a slight frown to his face and dampened his enthusiasm just a bit. To banish the feeling he imagined what Mary would think if he told her what he was about. That did the trick. After all, Mary was as petty and vindictive as he was, and didn’t it feel nice to not be the only one in the family anymore?

There was a knock on the door and he glanced involuntarily at the clock. Three minutes early. He smiled and called out politely, “Come in.”

Mrs. Hughes opened the door. “A Mr. Moore to see you, sir.”

He’d asked not to be called by his proper title while doing the interviews. The last thing he needed was candidates kissing up and thinking that anything he said meant they had the job. Here, though, it also afforded him a bit of camouflage. Even if she’d told him that he would be meeting Mr. Crawley rather than Mr. Carson, there was no reason for Mr. Moore to be expecting anything other than a strange butler. “Do show him in, Mrs. Hughes,” he smiled, all politeness and pleasantry.

The man who was shown through the door reminded Thomas of a walrus. He’d thought that the first time they’d met, but in the year between then and now, he’d managed to forget. He remembered immediately. If anything, he’d put on weight and his receding hairline had receded further, combining with his unchanged mustache to heighten the resemblance. He rolled into the room with an air of ineffable dignity, took one look at Thomas sitting at his desk, and ground to a halt. His eyes widened, but he showed no other sign of recognition.

The door closed behind him.

“Mr. Moore!” Thomas greeted, as cheerfully as he was able. “So good to see you again. Do have a seat.” He gestured to the seat on the other side of the desk.

Mr. Moore sat, his eyes shifting to the side ever so subtly, as if waiting for someone to pop out and yell ‘surprise!’ and tell him it was a joke. “Good day Mr.,” he hesitated over the last name before saying, very firmly, “Barrow.”

“Actually, it’s Crawley now,” Thomas corrected him. “It’s been quite the year of self discovery for me. Among other things, I’ve discovered I was adopted, funny thing, and I’ve decided to revert to my proper last name.” If the other man made any connection between Thomas and the Crawleys who lived upstairs, he didn’t show it. “I must say,” Thomas continued, “I was rather surprised to see your name on the list of people to interview. I thought you and the missus were happily settled at Rothwell Manor. What prompted you to apply?”

“As you are aware, Mr. Crawley,” the man emphasized the last name, “Rothwell Manor has been going through a slight restructuring of the staff. Under the circumstances, it was felt my experience might be better utilized at a different house, one in greater need of leadership.”

In short, Thomas summed up, he’d been made redundant. He felt like a cat up to its chin in cream. “Right. No need to have a talented butler sitting by idle while the assistant butler does all the work, is there? And while Rothewell Manor is an undeniably fine house, I can’t see there really being enough work for two.”

Mr. Moore came very close to glaring.

“Well, we certainly have a staff that could use overseeing. Not large for a house of this size, admittedly. We’ve been having our own staffing issues, as you’re well aware. At present we have one footman and two hall boys for you to oversee, with a second footman who comes up from the village as needed. I can’t imagine that would be too difficult for you.” He frowned, thoughtfully. “Mrs. Moore would be a bit of a problem. Our servants’ quarters, of course, are not set up for married couples, and we don’t have any available cottages for you to take at the moment.”

“I have sufficient funds to arrange for Mrs. Moore and I to have our own living quarters, separate from the estate,” Mr. Moore informed him.

The image of Mr. Moore huffing his way up to the Abbey from the village enough was almost enough to make Thomas reconsider and hire him. He was certain the other man didn’t have his own car. But after O’Brien he was less interested in keeping his enemies close than keeping them as far away as possible, preferably in another country. “Ah, yes, a little place to retire. I’m certain you’ve saved up quite a little nest egg over the years,” Thomas nodded, having no qualms about taking pot shots at the other man’s age. After all, they’d just had one butler retire on them, and Mr. Moore couldn’t have been that much younger than Carson. Which was not to say Thomas wouldn’t agree to hire an older, more experienced butler, but any excuse to turn this man down was seen as a bonus. “Are you certain, though, that Downton is the sort of place the missus would like to spend her fading years? I understood that women went in for Bath or little seaside cottages.”

While it was clear from his expression and his notably chilly replies, Mr. Moore knew he was being mocked, he showed a surprising resilience. He must have really wanted the job. “Mrs. Moore was born and raised in Yorkshire, Mr. Crawley, and she hopes to die here. She also enjoys the society of others, so a small town near enough the cities to visit would be preferable.” Before Thomas could phrase his next question, he asked one of his own. “If I may, Mr. Crawley, why are you not taking the position when Mr. Carson leaves?”

The light bulb went on over Thomas’s head. Of course Mr. Moore was being polite and professional. He thought Thomas was still the under-butler, standing in for Carson, and therefore without real power. Well, that would have to be remedied. “Oh, Mr. Carson’s already left, actually,” Thomas assured him. At his immediately perplexed look, he elaborated, “You see, Mr. Carson was the butler here for years, but then his hands went shaky and he had to step down. I took his place at that point, but as I said, it’s been quite the year of self discovery. Along with being adopted, I discovered that Lord and Lady Grantham are actually my parents. So,” he spread his hands philosophically, “I’ve moved into my rightful place upstairs and Mr. Carson has taken over just long enough for us to find a replacement. Except today he has a cold, so I’ve offered to fill in.”

Mr. Moore stared at him, his jaw working like a fish. Thomas understood the look completely. Finally the older man found his voice and, giving in and breaking his professional character, growled. “Is this a joke?”

“I know!” Thomas laughed. “I thought the same thing when I found out. Everyone did. But no. The lawyers have been over everything and concluded that it is no joke. I am the current Viscount Downton and any butler who serves my family will have to be dedicated, discreet, and unfailingly diplomatic.” He stopped, smiling, not caring that it was a nasty smile. Mr. Moore looked like he had swallowed a live toad. “Do you think you have those qualifications, Mr. Moore? Because for some strange reason, I have my doubts.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then there was the scrape of wood on stone as Mr. Moore pushed his chair back and stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Crawley.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Moore.” Thomas remained seated and smiling as the other man turned and showed himself out of the room. “We’ll be in touch.”

#downton abbey #downton abbey fanfiction #wip wednesday #thomas barrow

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lingthusiasm · 4 years

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Transcript Episode 43: The grammar of singular they - Interview with Kirby Conrod

This is a transcript for Lingthusiasm Episode 43: The grammar of singular they - Interview with Kirby Conrod. It’s been lightly edited for readability. Listen to the episode here or wherever you get your podcasts. Links to studies mentioned and further reading can be found on the Episode 43 show notes page.

[Music]

Gretchen: Welcome to Lingthusiasm, a podcast that’s enthusiastic about linguistics! I’m Gretchen McCulloch. I’m here with Dr Kirby Conrod who’s a linguist at the University of Washington. But first, some announcements. The LingComm grant is still open until June 1st. You should apply for that if you have a linguistics communication project that you think will helped by a bit of money and a bit of support. There’s more details for that on the website at lingcomm.org. That’s “comm” with two Ms as in “communication.” We’ll link to that in the description as well.

[Music]

Gretchen: Hello, Kirby! Welcome to the podcast.

Kirby: Good morning. Thank you for having me.

Gretchen: Thank you so much for coming. I wanna start with the first question that we ask all of our guests which is, how did you get interested in linguistics?

Kirby: I have to preface this by saying that I didn’t know I was going to major in linguistics when I went to my undergrad for my four-year college. I got into UC Santa Cruz. It was lower on the list, but I ended up having an amazing time. When I was applying to colleges from high school, I thought I wanted to be an English major. I got to UC Santa Cruz and I realised, “Oh, my gosh! You guys don’t have an English major.” It’s just not a program that they have. So, I was like, “Okay. Well, I’m gonna make my own English major out of spare parts.” What I did was I decided, “Okay. I’m gonna double-major in literature and linguistics and that will make an English major.” What ended up happening was I essentially made, somehow, the opposite of an English major. It really ended up being the absolute perfect thing for me.

What really cemented, like, linguistics is where I was going to stay for sure was my first syntax class in my first year of undergrad. The first day of class my professor, Jim McCloskey, walks into the class and says – and I’m a freshman. I’m a little baby at this point. He walks into the class and says, “This is probably the hardest class that this university offers. Please don’t take it for a grade.” I have to say it was good advice. It was very hard. Taking it pass/fail meant that I could really focus on what I was learning. This was a Syntax 1 class. Syntax is all about the idea that we can make an equation to put words together to produce only the real sentences of language and not the sentences that don’t happen in language. By the end of the quarter, you have a pretty good working model of what sentences can be. It’s not complete yet. It’s always an ongoing project.

The other thing that really drew me to linguistics was that my instructors in undergrad were always really honest about this, and I try to be really honest too, about this is not a solved problem. This happens constantly – now that I’m teaching Syntax 1 and I’m on the other side of the room – it happens constantly that students will ask me questions that the answers don’t exist yet. It’s not that the answers aren’t out there. It’s that we haven’t figured it out yet. This happens all the time. As a student, to me, that was really moving and exciting of feeling like I could contribute something. There’s a lot that needs to be contributed. In undergrad, my instructors were very upfront about this of undergrads can and do produce new knowledge in their linguistics classes. Sometimes, undergrads go to conferences, present their work, do original research. It happens because there’s just a lot of unexplored space.

Gretchen: This was something I found really exciting as an undergrad as well that I can be looking at things and no one else has looked at this.

Kirby: It’s really, really cool. It’s one of these things that it gives you goose bumps to be sitting in a class and realise if I have an idea of how to deal with this, then I’m the first person to have this idea. I don’t have to just go back into the literature and find So-and-So has already solved this problem. It’s a matter of I can solve this problem. That’s really, really compelling.

Gretchen: You don’t have to go through 200 years or 500 years or 1,000 years of intellectual tradition of “I need to learn this entire history” before I can possibly make any sort of contribution to this area. It’s like this is a young field and there’s still stuff to do that.

Kirby: It feels like a math class where math isn’t finished being invented.

Gretchen: I guess there are still mathematicians who are inventing math, but you have to have a PhD in math before you know what math hasn’t been done yet.

Kirby: Whereas, very much it is the case that Syntax 1 students will run into new math in terms of syntax. It’s really cool and compelling to me.

Gretchen: This gets us into the next question which is, how did you get into your current research topic? What was the new thing that you were trying to figure out?

Kirby: I got into my current research topic when I got to grad school. I already knew that I wanted to study syntax, so I was taking syntax classes. In my first year of grad school was the first year that I was out as nonbinary and asking people to call me “they” and really being a participant in the trans community. Most of my friends were trans. The nonbinary stuff and the grad school in linguistics happened to me at the same time.

What this meant was I was sitting in semantics or syntax classes and reading stuff in our textbooks about pronouns that I could just say, “Well, that’s factually wrong. That’s descriptively just not what happens.” The reason that I knew this was that I was in this situation where being very newly out as nonbinary and being very newly asking people to use these pronouns, it was the situation where people would use just sort of random pronouns about me. I got the full spread of the three big ones of people would call me “he” or “she” or “they” sort of at random.

The other thing is that people would switch pronouns in the middle of the conversation and not necessarily notice it. Or I would constantly be having a conversation where one speaker – talking about the same person – one speaker is using one set of pronouns and the other speaker is using the other set of pronouns. None of this is something that can be adequately described in your grad school semantics or syntax textbook. What you’re going to see is something like, “Mary likes himself,” marked as ungrammatical. They’re gonna put the star on it and they’re gonna say, “This doesn’t happen.” As a trans person and as somebody with ears, I could just factually say that’s not true.

Gretchen: Because people are saying sentences like this all the time.

Kirby: People are saying sentences like this all the time. One of the things where I had this perspective that previous linguists had not had. So, I was really pulled to say I want syntax and semantics and sociolinguistics – I really want us to be able to explain this. Our theory is inadequate if we are throwing out data. This is something where the only time I would see this mentioned would be in footnotes of like, “Well, that’s not really relevant.” I was really pulled to say that is relevant. It’s relevant to me every day. I can’t get away from it. I came in knowing that I liked syntax first and being pulled towards thinking about gender and pronouns second because it was this apparently over-simplified area that left a lot of questions unanswered for me.

Gretchen: You’re like, “Look! I have this data and our current theory doesn’t account for that.”

Kirby: Exactly. That’s the thing that all syntacticians are doing all the time. It’s why we get really rowdy when you get a bunch of them in a room is because we all feel that excitement of there’s something that you can’t explain. You’ve given me an explanation that doesn’t explain everything. I have to make sure that people know about this.

Gretchen: And this idea that syntax should also be taking into consideration the variation in terms of how people use language and how different groups of people use language and learning from sociolinguistics about addressing these types of things better.

Kirby: Yeah. This is something where at my graduate institution where I got my PhD there is a lot of sociolinguistics. There is several sociolinguistic faculty. We have a lab. In my undergrad, we didn’t have sociolinguistics as a focus. We didn’t have any sociolinguistics faculty. It was very new to me. I was really excited by it because it feels like, yes, here’s all the complexity and diversity that my experience as a language user tells me it’s out there. Here's a way of thinking about it. As a syntactician, I’m really interested in incorporating the stuff that people are doing socially with language because I think if we’re building our model, our algorithm, of what are possible things to do, it is a little bit dishonest to be like, “Oh, but if you have this certain dialect, that’s a different thing and we’re just gonna ignore that data.” That feels a little dishonest. Then, the other thing is that it’s not the case that anybody speaks just one exact English. Everybody has some level of variation or multi-lectalism or your big box of forms that you have as an option.

Gretchen: I like to say that people talk differently to your boss than you do to your dog.

Kirby: Yeah. If I’m building a model that’s supposed to generate all the sentences, I wanna generate all the sentences. That includes ways of thinking about how you talk to your boss or your dog. For pronouns, this is so important because it does apparently seem to have grammatical consequences. It’s not just, “Oh, well, we’ll make the syntax part of it a little more vague and underspecified,” because there’re syntactic consequences where stuff has to agree with itself. If you use a pronoun in a sentence and then you’re gonna use another pronoun later, the rules are different than if you use a name and then use a pronoun later. The example I gave you of “Mary likes himself” where I said it sort of depends – I do hear people using pronouns in this way where it doesn’t seem to be totally linked to the name itself. A name is something that it really depends on who we’re thinking about in our mind. For example, my friend Rory who uses both “he” and “they,” you can say, “Rory likes themself,” and you can say, “Rory likes himself.” Those are both fine. Neither of them is misgendering them. But if I’m talking about Rory, even if we know that I’m talking about the same person – especially if we know that I’m talking about the same person – I can’t say, “He likes themself.”

Gretchen: Right. Because even though this person uses these two different pronouns, that makes it sound like you’re referring to two different people in the context of that one sentence.

Kirby: If I hold your head down and force you to say, “It’s the same person,” if I – like in my example – I’m like, “Okay. I put the little numbers on it to say I’m really talking about Rory both times,” then you’re gonna start saying, “Well, it’s ungrammatical. It’s weird to say this.” The rules seem to be really different for matching names and pronouns versus matching pronouns on pronouns, which indicates to me that there is something going on in the grammar itself, in the syntax part of it, and it’s not just social knowledge. It really has to be both parts of the puzzle to think about how we can explain what people are doing but also what people don’t do.

Gretchen: Because even within this “Oh, you have more options,” that doesn’t mean you have all of the possible hypothetical options.

Kirby: Yeah.

Gretchen: But you could do something like switching from one sentence to the next. Is that something people do? Like, “They like themself and he’s a good musician” or something like this.

Kirby: Yes. This is something where people do it about cis people – about not nonbinary people too. This is something where I noticed it in undergrad, actually. A friend of mine was telling us he had gone on a hot date last night. We knew what kind of gender that he was dating. So, it wasn’t that we didn’t know the likely gender of who he was talking about. But he was telling us the story about this hot date using “they” the whole time and saying, “Oh, yeah, they picked me up. They were driving this beautiful car” and stuff like this. Then, a ways into the story he started using “he” for a while, while talking about getting drinks at the bar of like, “Oh, he bought me this beautiful cocktail.” At the end of the story, he switched back to “they” of like, “I don’t know if I’m gonna text them again.”

Gretchen: Interesting. Like, as this person was getting more intimate in the story with this person they’re switching to a more, I guess, specific gender in this context. Then, when they’re saying, “Oh, I’m not sure if I’m gonna talk to them again” –

Kirby: This is something where it’s not the case that my friend’s date uses two sets of pronouns necessarily. The thing about “they” in particular is that it doesn’t tell you anything about the gender. It can imply things, but it can’t specifically tell you things. People have the option to use “they” pretty much all the time. People do use it to give you a little more detail and a little less detail. When they’re giving you more detail, sometimes that can give you additional of meaning of like, “I want you to know this is an important part of the kind of relationship that I’m talking about.” When they give you a little bit less detail, sometimes it’s like, “Well, gender’s kind of not relevant for this part. This is the part where I don’t think it’s important to talk about the specific gender of the person.”

It’s not that the gender stopped existing. It’s just that we have this option of turning the dial up of how much we wanna include. This opportunity to switch and change pronouns in some contexts but not others is something that also brought up a bunch of questions for me as a student in graduate school learning about sociolinguistics because the other thing is that sociolinguists talk about gender, but they talk about it in the very binary way – or up until a certain point. They’re starting to really grapple with this.

Reading my Sociolinguistics 1 and 2 papers, there’s a lot of, “Men do this, and women do this.” Or “Men mostly do this, and women mostly do this.” No mention of nonbinary people. For one thing, they did not include any in the study. For another thing, many of the authors of early sociolinguistics work just didn’t really have access to LGBT communities in the 60s and 70s. Or it was really separated from mainstream communities in a way that made it hard to compare directly. Reading these studies as an early student of sociolinguistics and being nonbinary in my first and second year of grad school, saying, “None of this applies to me. You can’t explain anything I do under this model” and really feeling like we have to develop the theory to be able to explain everything that’s happening not just the stuff that we don’t decide is weird.

Gretchen: Exactly. What’s the point in having a theory if you’re saying we’re only gonna try to explain some of this data and just ignore a whole bunch that doesn’t fit with the theory?

Kirby: My motivation for pursuing my work in pronouns, and especially my work with nonbinary and trans pronouns, has been all about answering those questions that came up for me very early in my graduate school and saying I think our way of doing this is not sophisticated enough. I really want to push us further.

Gretchen: What are some answers or glimmerings towards answers that you’ve ended up with?

Kirby: One of the things that I’m trying to discuss with people is that there’re a bunch of other kinds of pronouns in languages besides English, and English has had these in the past, but pronouns that encode this very social information in the way that gender is and still have grammatical consequences. We’ve just been not using this model to explain what’s going on with gender.

Gretchen: Things like formal versus informal “you” and these kinds of things?

Kirby: Exactly. One of the things that I’ve come up with is if we think of this existing thing, and there’s some really great research in Spanish of Latin America where people will switch between “tu” and “usted” and “voseo” – “tu” being the informal “you,” and “usted” being a formal “you,” and “voseo” is a form of the verb agreement. The verbs will change depending on the forms. There’s some great work within the last few years about, yeah, people totally switch in the middle of the conversation and they totally switch in the middle of the conversation as a way of accomplishing certain social goals.

This example given by Raymond 2016 where a 911 caller – he’s a tourist. He’s speaking Spanish and he’s calling and talking to the 911 dispatcher. At the beginning of the conversation, he’s trying to say, “I got scammed at this hotel.” He’s very indignant. He’s using “tu” to the dispatcher as a way of interacting of like, “You are a service person” in the way that you speak down to or, if you’re rude, you speak down to people who are providing you a service in certain ways.

Gretchen: Kind of registering his anger by not being polite.

Kirby: Yeah. Later in the conversation, when she’s starting to ask for paperwork or receipts or stuff and he’s starting to get nervous, he switches to the “usted” forms because – so Raymond conceptualises that the reason for this is that he now sees her as a gatekeeper to something that he wants. Now, he has to appease her rather than talk down to her. This is the thing of this all happens with gender too. It’s a little bit more abstract because the social relationships that we’re talking about are not up or down. You can map them onto hierarchies, but they don’t cleanly follow. Thinking about systems that refer to people’s gender, and especially systems that encode people’s gender directly into the grammar in some way, as more similar to systems that encode formality or honorific marking is a really useful model. It’s a really good way of getting away from the rigid binary models that we’ve looked at before.

Gretchen: Because the idea is that honorifics, everyone knows that they change in a given social interaction and people can switch to using a different form of “you” to address somebody or a different form of even “I” – like Japanese has all these different forms of “I” depending on how polite you wanna be.

Kirby: And depending on gender and depending on specific age – yeah. There’s a lot of rich expressive content there. Basically, the idea that comes out of my research is that you can use gender features – and I’m doing air quotes, “gender features” – where you can use pronouns in English but you can also use other parts of speech that are more grammatical to do that work via gender marking.

Gretchen: What’s an example of that?

Kirby: I’m gonna give you an example from Ru Paul’s Drag Race.

Gretchen: Excellent.

Kirby: This was very early on in a season. A contestant is not doing well. This is the contestant who is actually eliminated first. Have you watched Ru Paul’s Drag Race?

Gretchen: I may have seen an episode at some point but I’m not particularly familiar, so you should proceed as though I know nothing.

Kirby: One of things you’ll notice when you watch the show is that the contestants and the judges mostly use “she” for the contestants who are all drag queens but not always. It depends on how they feel about a particular queen.

What you see with this contestant who’s getting eliminated very early in the season, the lead up to her elimination is the usual reality TV of they do confessional shots where they’re talking about each other and then the judges are talking shit about contestants in the way that one does on reality TV. The contestant who’s going to get eliminated – I mean, they set this up pretty clearly. They’re going to eliminate her at the end of the episode. They talk a lot about how she is struggling with the performance. She’s not doing a good job with her costume construction or deciding how to do the performing art of drag. When they’re talking about her in her way of not being a good performer, they use “he.”

Gretchen: Okay. Like, “You’re not performing femininity well, so we’re not gonna use this pronoun”?

Kirby: It’s not exactly about not performing femininity well because none of them talk about her not being convincing as a drag queen. They’re mostly talking about her not being skilled as a drag queen. If you think about it as a type of performing art in the same way that opera or ballet or river dancing are all specific types of performing art that you can be good or bad at – and the specific thing about drag performance is that if you are good or bad at the specific performing art, you get different pronouns.

This contestant was not less feminine than the other drag queens. It’s that she was not good at dancing, which this is conceptually a little bit further away from she’s not very feminine. That was not the issue. It was not the issue that any of the judges or other contestants were talking about. They were talking about, you know, “She’s not good at dancing,” or “She’s not good at organising her time so she has enough time in the time period to construct a good costume out of garbage,” or whatever the reality TV challenge is – the thing of there’s always a time limit. Part of the thing of succeeding at the time limit is budgeting your time. If you’re not good at that, then you’re gonna do poorly in the contest.

Gretchen: That’s not really gender.

Kirby: It’s not gender. But using “he” as a way of layering meaning on top of that – and they didn’t call her “he” the whole episode. They did it only when they were specifically talking about her poor performance.

Gretchen: Interesting. So, it’s accomplishing this very specific sub-goal.

Kirby: Yes. This is obviously a very locally constrained use of that meaning, but it’s very productive – meaning that people can use those meanings to accomplish a lot of different goals and they can do it without really thinking about it. They can extend the meaning and be very creative with it. This is the thing that really, to me, indicates these are up for meaning making in the same way that “tu” and “usted” are up for meaning making which is sometimes “tu” and “usted” mean “I’m older and more senior than you,” but sometimes, they mean “I need something from you.

Gretchen: There’s this incredibly complicated flow chart about when to use “tu” versus “vous” in French. One of the questions is like, “Are you feeling lucky, punk?” and if you’re feeling lucky, you use “tu,” and if you’re not feeling lucky, you use “vous.” Sometimes, these decisions are microsocial decisions in a particular instance where you’re saying, “Here’s what I’m doing kind of.”

Kirby: Essentially, my contribution here is saying that that flow chart of “Are you feeling lucky, punk?” and a lot of microsocial decisions applies just as well to gender as it applies to formal pronouns. What this does is it means that we can conceptualise pronouns as more similar cross-linguistically rather than more different. This is a hard project because it doesn’t look like pronouns are a natural class – meaning that they’re not made out of the same stuff in every language. Languages generally need pronouns as a way to avoid saying the same name over and over again. What this ends up doing is encoding social information to varying degrees.

Gretchen: There are lots of languages that don’t have gender in pronouns at all.

Kirby: The majority of the world’s languages have no gender marking on their pronouns. The “he/she” thing in English, we’re in a minority position here.

Gretchen: It’s this weird artificial thing of Indo-European languages often have gender pronouns, but outside of Europe, very few languages do.

Kirby: If you’re gonna only compare cousins and then say that you found a fact about all humans, you have a pretty serious confound there in that they are related.

Gretchen: It turns out all humans have red hair.

Kirby: Yeah. Because I looked at all the Weasleys and they all have red hair and so all humans have red hair. It’s nonsensical to do that kind of comparison and only look at Indo-European languages because they are related. You are going to get some factors that there’s no reason to assume that’s universal.

Gretchen: You’ve done surveys of how English speakers use pronouns has been changing demographically as well – like by age.

Kirby: Yes. When I’ve been doing these surveys, my biggest survey was looking at “singular they.” Singular they has been in English for hundreds of years. There’s lots of work on this.

Gretchen: It’s in Shakespeare. It’s in Chaucer. All of this stuff.

Kirby: It’s been around. But the kind of singular they that’s been around is not the kind that I use as a nonbinary person. The different kinds of singular they are something like, okay, “Someone forgot their backpack.”

Gretchen: You don’t know whose backpack it is.

Kirby: Or “Each linguist should grab their nametag.”

Gretchen: I think the example from Shakespeare is, “There’s not a man I meet but doth salute me as if were their well-acquainted friend.” Here, it’s interesting because you have “man” there, but he’s clearly this man in a somewhat generic sense and using the “they” there rather than, “There’s not a man I meet but does salute me as if I were his well-acquainted friend,” which would be more this specific “men.”

Kirby: This is interesting because you’ll also see sentences like, “Pregnant women should always be given their parental leave.” We’re definitely talking about women, so it’s not the case that it’s just like, “Oh, well, Shakespeare thinks that man is the default kind of person.” No. It’s also the case that you’ll see that kind of generic singular they with “woman,” but the thing is that we’re talking about a set of people. We’re talking about a bunch of people in a group and then saying each one does their thing, which is different than talking about a specific person.

The new use is something like, “Kirby forgot their backpack.” I’m a singular they user, meaning that I don’t want to be referred to by “he” or “she” or anything else. I want to be referred to by “they.” It is also the case that this can happen whether or not we’re talking about someone who prefers that. Using “they” about a particular person is syntactically different than using “they” about a group of people that is singular because I’m talking about each one individually. So, “Each student forgot their backpack” is different than “Kirby forgot their backpack.” “Kirby” is a specific person.

Gretchen: Right. We can point to that person. “Each person forgot their backpack” is, if I’m pointing to each person, I have to do a bunch of different pointing.

Kirby: Yes. When I did my big survey, what I found was that use of the specific one – and I tested it by using names. I actually tested it using a bunch of different gendered names and I compared it with other pronouns as well. I did masculine and feminine and gender-neutral names with “they” – singular – and “he” and “she” to just see if there’s a difference. What I found was that there is a difference, but not for everybody. Older speakers do find it a little bit less natural sounding when I use a name and singular they. It’s different than when I use a name and “he” or “she.” Younger speakers – and the age cut off is around 35, basically millennials on down – younger speakers really don’t have a problem with it en masse. Most of them find it fine and they’ll rate it as “This is just a normal sentence.” Obviously, there are individual people who are like, “No. That sounds weird to me.” But it’s not as many. When you chart it all out, it really looks like there’s a slope that, as you look at older people, they have a harder time accepting that as part of the grammar or part of their unconscious syntax.

Gretchen: Is this a thing that some older people are managing to do it, it depends on how queer friends they have? Or is it like a –

Kirby: The studies on this are very new. To sort of triangulate across my research and some of Lauren Ackerman’s and some of Evan Bradley’s, it looks like, in general, if you have more nonbinary friends then you’re better with singular they. That makes sense. That’s Lauren Ackerman’s study. In general, if you are trans or nonbinary yourself, you’re better with singular they. Binary trans men and women are, in general, better with singular they than cis people in general. Nonbinary people are sort of obviously fine with it.

Gretchen: Like, “Oh, look! I do this myself, so I guess I better practice it a lot” or whatever.

Kirby: The other thing that influences it then – I’m talking about three different studies. We haven’t combined forces yet. This is all stuff that’s been published within the last two years. It’s very, very fresh off the presses.

Gretchen: This is cutting-edge linguistic research.

Kirby: It’s extremely cutting edge. Lauren Ackerman’s stuff is saying if you have more nonbinary friends, you’re better with singular they. I can say, “Okay. If you’re younger and/or trans and/or nonbinary yourself, you’re better with singular they.” Evan Bradley has been looking at people’s feelings about prescriptivism and feelings about gender ideology. People who have more prescriptive opinions in general are worse with singular they. Also, people who have – this is what he calls “benevolent sexism,” which is not “Oh, I hate women and I’m gonna oppress them” –

Gretchen: It’s like, “I’m gonna hold open the door for all the women.”

Kirby: Yeah. Benevolent sexism is sort of “I think that people of different sexes have fundamental differences and different needs based on their sex.” If you have that benevolent sexism, you’re more likely to be worse at singular they. It’s related to this idea that there are binary baseline categories of people.

Gretchen: I found for me that acquiring singular they, which I feel like I’ve done in the past couple years because I know more nonbinary and agender people who use singular they as a pronoun, and at first it took a conscious thought, which is kind of like acquiring a language but in an easier way. I also have to do this conscious thought when I’m speaking French and I’m figuring out am I using “tu” or “vous” or am I doing this thing in French. It takes a bit off extra thought, but it doesn’t mean that adults can’t acquire a language because adults clearly do learn languages. This is not learning an entire language. It’s doing something like that, but I think I had to believe that it was worth doing this additional bit of conscious effort in order to actually do it.

Kirby: Yes. All the singular they researchers agree that the next step is figuring out, what is the factor that makes it easier for some people to learn it and not for other people? You’re not the first person that I’ve talked to who has said, “Yeah. I’ve learned it in the past couple years” or “I’ve made an effort to learn it.” I also have people who have said, “I just kind of picked it up from around me,” but as an adult. Not something where the Zoomers – the very young Gen Z people – who are coming into my freshman classes with singular they already. They’re acquiring it as children. They don’t have to do any work. They already have it.

It is the case that some adults seem to be able to acquire it on purpose, and some adults seem to want to acquire it but really can’t, or they report significant difficulty. You will get people – and it doesn’t seem to be correlated with age. We need to do studies about this. We haven’t done it yet because we all need some resources to be able to do that. But there are people who say, “I’m really trying to learn singular they, but I mess up often.” Well, people will frequently under-report how much they mess up. You will frequently say – if you look at somebody who is saying, “I’m trying to do better but I do make mistakes” – they’ll usually say, “Yeah. I make one or two mistakes.” Then, you’ll actually look at what they’ve said, and they mess up almost constantly. We don’t really know yet what the issue is that makes it easier for some people to learn it.

Gretchen: Or something like intimacy? I notice this on the internet especially because you don’t have as many cues on the internet. Oftentimes, if you’re referring to a commenter above you in a thread and all you know is that the commenter’s initials are J.D. or something, you really have no information about this commenter, people will often use “they” to refer to the previous commenter. Whereas, if somebody knows me, one of the ways that I can tell that they know me is that they’re actually using “she/her” for me as opposed to using the generic “they” of the comment thread. It maybe signals a kind of intimacy.

Kirby: This is something that Leah Velleman has talked about – I cite her in my dissertation because it’s a great idea – something called “distal they,” where it’s a use of singular they that ends up implying social distance, essentially what you explained of like, “Well, if they knew me, they would be using a more specific form.”

It’s in the same way that using someone’s name, and especially first name, implies familiarity. It’s not necessarily that a first name has some sort of grammatical feature of familiarity. It’s just that it implies that you have enough social contact to know their first name, also they’re not gonna get mad at you for using it and this sort of thing. That way of using “they” to mark social distance or social closeness, if you have an option of a more specific pronoun, is something that falls out of how specific and how much information am I giving you about this person’s social position. I assume if it were relevant or if you had more information, you would be giving me more information, and if you had less information, that might be why you’re using this underspecified, vague form.

Gretchen: We’ve talked about people acquiring singular they very consciously and putting in this effort to do that. Did you also study why people are putting in this effort to organise their syntax? People don’t do this all the time.

Kirby: I’m gonna do a rude thing to you. You told me that this is something that you have learned on purpose. You made an effort to learn it. Why did you do that?

Gretchen: I mean, it seemed like the polite thing to do – the “being a considerate human” thing to do. If someone says, “Please, call me this,” then I either need to do that or I need to accept this person’s not gonna like me anymore.

Kirby: That’s the motivation. As far as I can tell you, and I haven’t yet gotten into the formal research, but it seems like – people volunteer the information to me pretty frequently – that the reason somebody would decide to change their grammar on purpose is to avoid doing this thing that’s baked into their grammar that ends up being very rude. Misgendering somebody is very rude. It is rude whether you do it to a trans person or a cis person. It just so happens that it happens to trans people a lot more often.

You’re asking me, why are people acquiring this? And the answer that you had given me yourself is, “I don’t wanna misgender people. It’s rude.” It’s rude to call somebody by the wrong name. It’s rude to just decide to give somebody a name that they don’t identify with. I think that a lot of people can say, if you just come up to me and say, “Hey, I’m gonna call you ‘Champ,’” maybe I don’t want you to call me “Champ,” actually. Maybe I don’t like to be called “Champ.” People really don’t like that feeling of being called something that doesn’t reflect what you think you are. If you know any nonbinary people, you have this motivation to not misgender them.

A really sweet story that I can share, when my friend changed their pronouns to “they,” one of the things that their cis friends did was they decided, “Okay. We’re gonna hang out” – they all lived together. They were all roommates. “We’re gonna hang out today. We’re gonna all clean the house. We’re gonna talk about them all day and tell stories about them to practice – to practice where they don’t have to hear us mess up.”

Gretchen: Oh, nice. The friend wasn’t there. It was just all of their cis friends saying, “We’re gonna practice.”

Kirby: Yeah. This friend came back – came over the next week – and everybody was already perfect at it because they had dedicated an eight-hour day of just doing that and correcting each other and getting the practice out of the way before it’s gonna hurt somebody’s feelings. That practice phase is something that’s really useful. Asking a bunch of friends to spend eight hours cleaning is something that not everybody has time to do.

The other thing that you can do is something like tell a story about the person and encourage yourself to practice self-correcting because it’s in this way where you’re doing it not in front of them, so you can get all your mistakes out of your system not in front of them. You’re not asking the person to do the emotional labour of correcting you every time. You’re just doing it out of the way, so they don’t have to be on your case.

Gretchen: The social awkwardness of like, “Oh, do I speak up and then make this conversation about that or do I let it slide?” But then maybe they’ll keep doing it, and this is something that’s hurtful.

Kirby: You can do that work without burdening the person because, okay, for my example, if I spent as much time in the beginning of my transition and grad school at the same time, I spent a lot of time correcting people and sending emails and really insisting. It took up a lot of time. I have to do it –

Gretchen: You’re trying to do a whole bunch of other stuff as well.

Kirby: Also, I was in grad school. I was very busy. I had to do this with everybody. If people took it upon themselves to get good it on their own, that was one fewer of my friends and family that I had to worry about tutoring. My sister just did it on her own and practiced and doesn’t mess up in front of me. It’s fine. It means that I never have to put my mental time and budget for correcting.

Gretchen: I think there are a lot of tips that people can have of, “Oh, this does seem like a thing that I wanna do of like I do wanna respect people and I do wanna not hurt people,” but you’re the individual pieces of that. And you’re putting together a guide?

Kirby: It’s not just me. I am absolutely indebted to the work of Bronwyn Bjorkman and Lex Konnelly who put together the They 2019 conference, which was a linguistics conference and was focused completely on nonbinary and trans pronoun use. One of the outputs of this conference is that everybody who attends is collaborating on materials and ways that we’re going to share our research findings for people to use in their real lives.

We are putting together brochures of – how do you practice? How do you learn? How can you help people? These are something that we’re trying to make very accessible and trying to make it very straightforward and shame free and all about allowing people to decide what they want to accomplish with their grammar because deciding to acquire a grammatical feature on purpose is making the decision that you’re gonna rewrite something totally unconscious as a way to stop hurting people. That takes work. But even making the decision in the first place is really important.

[Music]

Gretchen: For more Lingthusiasm and links to all the things mentioned in this episode, go to lingthusiasm.com. You can listen to us on iTunes, Google Play Music, SoundCloud, or wherever else you get your podcasts. You can follow @Lingthusiasm on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Tumblr. You can get IPA scarves and other Lingthusiasm merch at lingthusiasm.com/merch. Lauren tweets and blogs as Superlinguo. I can be found as @GretchenAMcC on Twitter, my blog is AllThingsLinguistic.com, and my book is Because Internet. You can follow Kirby Conrod, our guest, on Twitter as @kirbyconrod.

To listen to bonus episodes and help keep the show ad-free, go to patreon.com/lingthusiasm or follow the links from our website. Current bonus topics include teaching advice for linguistics and a very special episode of Lingthusiasm written by robots. Can’t afford to pledge? That’s okay, too. We also really appreciate if you can recommend Lingthusiasm to anyone who needs a little more linguistics in their life. Lingthusiasm is created and produced by Gretchen McCulloch and Lauren Gawne. Our senior producer is Claire Gawne, and our editorial producer is Sarah Dopierala, and our music is by The Triangles. I will leave you with our guest.

Kirby: Stay lingthusiastic!

[Music]

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

#linguistics #lingthusiasm #language #syntax #grammar #pronouns #singular they #interviews #Kirby Conrod #episode 43 #transcripts #gender #gender pronouns #trans #nonbinary #queer linguistics #sociolinguistics #sociosyntax

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matrixaffiliate · 4 years

Text

Endeavor

New Story! FFN and AO3

Teddy Lupin just wants a job that is even remotely related to his shiny new marketing degree. But when Harry helps him find a job with Ron's bakery empire, Ted isn't prepared for his new coworker - the niece of the CEO - to change everything. A Tedoire Muggle AU.

Starting another long one friends, because I have zero chill right now. I hope you enjoy it! The next chapter will go up on August 1. =)

Endeavor

Chapter 1

Teddy shook his head and shoved his phone back in his pocket.

"Everything alright, love?" His mum passed the potatoes to him.

"No, but I'll figure it out." Teddy took the potatoes before passing them to his dad.

"What was on your phone that has you upset?" His dad set down the bowl and then picked up his fork.

Teddy sighed, "Just another rejection email."

Teddy had been done with university for three months now and been applying for jobs for longer. But with no marketing experience, no one was taking a second look at him. He'd hoped to be able to quit the two jobs he'd been working through school by now and just have one job doing what he enjoyed.

His parents shared a long look and Teddy tried to ignore it.

"What if you put the word out that you're looking for something?" His dad asked. "You could send an email to everyone, your grandparents, James and Lily, Sirius and Marlene, Peter and Bridget, and Harry and Ginny know a lot of people too. Maybe reach out, see what anyone can point you towards."

Teddy looked down at his plate. He hated the idea of broadcasting to everyone what Teddy was hoping was just a run of bad luck. These people were his family and here he'd be coming to them showing how he couldn't even handle finding a job on his own.

"It's worth a try dear," his mum put a hand on his arm.

Teddy looked up at his mum, bubblegum pink hair freshly dyed. He realized he probably needed to touch up his hair. But his mum gave his arm a squeeze and Teddy nodded.

"Alright, I'll email them before I leave, let you two read through it and make sure it's good enough."

His mum leaned over and kissed his cheek, quickly catching his glass of water before she knocked it over. "You'll see, someone will have something that can help."

0o0o0o0o0o0

Teddy woke up the next morning to the sound of his roommate's 'morning music' playlist playing and sighed. He liked Kalil a lot, they'd ended up in this flat together when they were in their second year at university, and Teddy couldn't have asked for a better roommate. But did Kalil really have to play a music playlist for everything? Especially at half six in the morning?

Knowing he wouldn't be falling back asleep until he needed to be up at seven, Ted grabbed his phone and started swiping through the random notifications that had come in the night. He paused at a reply to his 'cry for help' email the night before.

It was from Harry.

Teddy opened it, trying not to hope for too much. His godfather had never failed him before, and Ted really didn't want it to start here.

Hey Ted,

Thought I'd let you know that Gin's brother is hiring at his place, and if you're interested, I'll take you there myself and put in the good word for you. Just let me know what works for you. Here's the link.

Take care,

Harry

Harry's response was the only one, and since Ted was up early anyway, he opened the link.

Ginny's brother Ron was hiring a new salesman, which isn't what Ted was hoping for. His degree was in marketing, not sales, and he didn't like tracking down customers, let alone schmoozing them into buying...industrial kitchen equipment apparently.

Ted closed the listing page and decided he might as well get an early start on his day.

However, Teddy's early start might have been a mistake. While stocking at his first job, one of the pallets he was moving bumped into a pallet stocked with glass bottles of imported maple syrup and broke at least a quarter of them. The cost would be coming out of his next paycheck, which meant most of his paycheck was gone. And he had to spend the majority of his shift cleaning up that mess.

From there he went to his servers' job and spent the night having every grumpy and unhappy person in England show up to simply sit and tell him what a horrible server he was. Ted made it home and collapsed on the sofa next to Kalil.

"Rough day then?" Kalil typed on his laptop.

"Brilliant," Ted huffed, "And yours?"

Kalil grinned over at him. "Got called for a second interview."

"That's fantastic," Ted forced himself to smile, "Really, mate, I'm happy for you."

"You'll get something, Lupin." Kalil shoved his shoulder, "Don't stress it."

Teddy willed his smile to stay in place and nodded. "Thanks, I'm going to go shower, stop smelling like low-grade Italian food."

Kalil nodded him on and went back to his computer. Ted moved to his room and pulled his phone out of his pocket. There was a text from his mum.

Mum: Did anyone respond to your email?

Teddy tossed his phone on his unmade bed. Was he being too picky? Wouldn't any job closer to marketing be an improvement over two jobs that he hated? At least a sales position would give him the "experience" that all these marketing positions he was applying for wanted. The worst that could happen is that he went from two lower-paying jobs that he dreaded to one job that paid a little more and maybe gave him some freedom to do something more than work day in and day out. Maybe he'd have time for a dating life.

Ted fell on his bed and grabbed his phone, opening the email from Harry.

What could it hurt?

Hey Harry,

Thx for getting back to me. Do you think tomorrow at half two would work? I get out of the warehouse at 2.

Ted

He texted his mum back that Harry was going to try and help him, and then he went to shower. When he got back to his room, now smelling less awful, he had a text from Harry.

Harry: I've confirmed with Ron. We're set for tomorrow at 2:30.

Teddy clicked on the address that Harry sent with his response and figured out how he wanted to get there from the warehouse. It would be close, but he'd probably make it in time.

Ted: Should I bring a resume or anything?

Teddy hit send and looked over at his cheap printer. He probably had enough ink in his printer to print one more, maybe.

Harry: Nah, just throw a copy on your phone so you can email it to him if he asks to see it.

Teddy looked over the copy he already had on his phone and decided it would have to be enough. He was exhausted and now he had a job interview tomorrow. He plugged in his phone and climbed into bed, Kalil's "chill playlist" playing quietly down the hall.

0o0o0o0o0o0

He didn't bring clothes to change into. Ted had meant to. He'd set them out so he'd remember. But Ted woke up late, and in his rush to make it to work on time, he'd forgotten to grab his button-up shirt and slacks and loafers. He'd be having this interview in his warehouse jumpsuit.

Brilliant.

"Ted!"

Teddy turned to find Harry waving him over to an open door.

"Hey, Harry," Ted smiled and embraced his godfather. "How are the kids?"

"Jamie and Al are causing trouble, and Lily gets a good laugh out of it all, so they're about the same."

Teddy grinned. "If I can get a job that doesn't require me working the dinner shift, I'll have to take them out for ice cream or something."

Harry opened the door wider and gestured Ted inside, "Let's see if we can't rid you of that dinner shift."

Teddy swallowed and stepped inside in the office building.

He'd met Ron a few times before. He knew that Ron had been at Harry and Ginny's wedding, but that was a long time ago and Ted had been four, or maybe he was five, he didn't remember. And Ron and his family had been at a few of the parties the Potters had hosted. But Teddy had never actually interacted with Ron more than to smile and say hello.

Now Teddy wished he'd taken more interest in his godmother's brother.

Ron stepped out of one of the offices and held out his hand.

"Ted! It's great to see you. I understand we might be able to help each other."

Ted smiled and shook his hand. "I'd like to hope so."

Harry clasped Ted on the shoulder. "Ted's looking to broaden his horizons."

"Come on in," Ron ushered them in.

Ted stepped in and took a look around. It was a small office, there wasn't a reception area, just two desks set up that faced the only, rather large, window, what looked like a supply closet on one end, and a bathroom on the other. There was also a small sink next to a fridge in the far-left corner, where a microwave sat on a card table and two folding chairs were tucked neatly against it.

Maybe this job wouldn't pay more than his current jobs…

"We're a small operation," Ron pulled a desk chair over to the card table and gestured to him and Harry to sit down in the folding chairs. "I don't know if you remember, Ted, but I own Bread & Butter, the cafe and bakery chain."

Ted nodded Ron on, but he honestly didn't remember that at all.

"And I realized a couple of years ago that a lot of the machines I was buying for our locations were expensive and subpar. So, I started looking for something better, and I finally worked with one of my favorite manufacturers to come up with something that worked the way I wanted it to. We saw an immediate improvement in our products at Bread & Butter and I arranged with the manufacturer to sell what we'd developed as the Bread & Butter line of industrial kitchen equipment."

"How is that going?" Teddy looked around again and Ron chuckled.

"It's going well, but it could be going better. I've been our main salesman, but I'm swamped with the bakery itself and coming up with new menu items and honestly, I'm not cut out for sales. I'm too attached to our line, and I need someone who can step in and take over sales. This little operation is simply a department of Bread & Butter but I've rented out this office space for it because we don't have space for it at the main bakery offices."

Teddy's mind started working very fast. "So, if I did well for you, there could be an opportunity to do more with Bread & Butter?"

"You mean like transfer to the marketing department?" Ron grinned, "Harry mentioned your degree is in marketing, but yes, I think that if I needed to expand or replace someone in marketing, I'd be more willing to move you over to the main building than hire someone new."

Teddy grinned back, "Alright, Ron, I think I'm interested.

The interview became a job training on the spot and Ted was almost ready to skive-off his dinner shift in exchange for spending more time working with Ron, but he needed to give his notice and he really should leave those jobs on good terms; they'd supported him through his years at university after all.

Ron clicked a few things on his phone as they finished up. "So, you'll be ready to start in one week then?"

Ted nodded, "Yeah, I'm only required to give the minimum with both of these jobs."

"Think you could stop by the main office in between your shifts this week and fill out the hiring forms?"

Teddy pulled out his phone to see his shift schedules. "Sure thing, boss."

"Great, I'll let you get to your dinner shift. And I'll let my niece know she can expect to have you here next week as well; she's off at a dental appointment this afternoon or you'd have met her today. She handles our website and coordinates deliveries." Ron stood up and shook Teddy's hand. "I'm looking forward to passing this all off to you."

Teddy laughed, "I'm looking forward to having just one job."

Harry followed him out of the building and hugged him. "Are you happy about this?"

"You know, I am," Ted felt a smile on his face. "This feels like the first step forward, you know? Thank you for setting this up for me. I keep forgetting that you never steer me wrong."

"You can take the kids out for ice cream or something to show your gratitude," Harry razzed him. "They miss you."

"The first paycheck I get from Ron will go to taking them out for some fun," Teddy promised.

"Good, now go serve people bad Italian food."

The dinner rush was intense, but after giving his notice, Teddy wasn't bothered by it in the slightest. There was finally a light at the end of the tunnel.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Teddy slung his backpack over his shoulder and stepped into the office building, his new job, maybe a career, lay just down the corridor.

He stood a little straighter and walked down to the door, inserting his key to unlock it, only to have it push open to the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen. She had blonde hair pinned up off her shoulders, revealing her porcelain skin along her neck and face. Ted thought he was floored at her profile, but then she turned to smile at him and her blue eyes froze him in place; he forgot how to breathe.

"Hi, you must be Ted, I'm Vic. I guess we're sharing the office now."

Ted blinked. He couldn't seem to get his brain to function.

"Er, right, yeah, I'm Ted." He almost grimaced at his response. "It's nice to meet you."

"I got here early to clear up Uncle Ron's desk for you. He left a bunch of things that he thought you'd need but I promise you won't." She closed a word document before standing up and offering her hand.

Teddy remembered how to human and moved into the office, sliding his keys back into his pocket, and shook Vic's hand. Her skin was amazingly soft and Ted immediately wanted to pull her back when she released this hand.

"I like the color." She smiled up at him.

"The color…?" Ted blinked.

Vic laughed, "Your hair, I like the turquoise."

Teddy felt like an idiot. "Oh! Right, er, thanks, my mum has hers pink."

Could he be any lamer right now?

"Wow! My mum would never dye her hair, and she'd probably have a heart attack if I dyed mine." Vic laughed and sat down at her desk.

Teddy followed suit, realizing that he had no idea what to do.

"Uncle Ron is supposed to be here at half eight to help get you set up, then you'll spend the day handing off all our customers, and get back here hopefully in time to clock out at five."

"Do we have a time clock?" Teddy looked around. He'd had to stamp in and out at both his warehouse job and his server job, but he hadn't expected it here.

Vic laughed at him, "You're joking right?"

Ted hoped he wasn't blushing and tried to own it.

"Oh no, I expect an establishment as posh as this one to give me an antique time stamp machine for me to put my time card into every day before having me descend into the coal mines of selling industrial kitchen mixers."

Vic laughed before grabbing a piece of paper from her desk drawer and a black marker.

"Antique Posh Time Stamp Machine," she said as she wrote it out on the paper. "There," she held it up for him. "Where would you like it to be?"

Teddy grinned; this was going to be the best job in the world.

"Oh, it can only be at the far end of the office. It has to be as far away from where the actual work gets done as possible or it isn't posh at all."

Vic snagged a few thumbtacks from her drawer and moved to where the supply closet was in the back corner before pinning the sign up on the wall next to the door.

"How's that?"

Ted smiled. "It's perfect."

Vic smiled and looked down at her hands for a moment before moving back to her desk.

"Ted!"

Teddy turned to see Ron walking into the office.

"Morning, boss," Ted tried to ignore the part of him that resented Ron for barging in on what felt like something special between him and Vic. He'd known the woman for less than five minutes. He had to get a grip.

"Hi, Uncle Ron, I thought you weren't going to be here for another half-hour or so."

"I had my first meeting rescheduled, so I'm here to get a head start with Ted. Vicky, Ted is Harry's godson, you might have met at one of their parties."

"You know Harry?" Teddy turned to look at Vic.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, my dad is Aunt Ginny's oldest brother."

Ted blinked, she looked nothing like a Weasley. When Ron had said that his niece worked here, and then when Ted saw her, he assumed she must be a niece in the same way James, Sirius, and Peter were his Uncles.

"Well now that we know how we're all connected, Ted, I've got most of my clients ready to meet with us so I can pass them off to you this morning. Ready to go?" Ron spun his keys around his fingers.

Teddy looked back at Vic for a brief moment before nodding to Ron, "Let's get this show on the road."

Getting the clients handed off took the majority of the day, but Teddy loved it. Ron made a point of also taking Ted to the main office and introducing him to the teams there. Ted had learned about networking in several classes, but Ron showed him how it was really done. Everyone loved Ron, and Teddy honestly believed that Ron cared about everyone he introduced him to.

With how well the day had gone, as he walked back into his office building with Ron, Ted couldn't wait to see Vic again.

That is until Ron opened the door.

Vic was kissing another man.

"Vicky," Ron sighed, "please remember this is an office. I know you enjoy having Sean come pick you up, but HR would throw a fit if they knew you were snogging him on the clock."

Victoire blushed furiously and the man that stood next to her grinned. His black hair was cut short and he had his sunglasses on backward.

"Don't worry, Ron, I'm not scared of HR."

Ron raised an eyebrow at the man, "You should be, they can make me fire her."

Sean turned back to Vic, "I'll wait in the car."

He winked at Ron and Ted as he left.

Ted hated Sean.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Ron. I know we shouldn't have been kissing in here. He came to surprise me and I'd mentioned you were out showing Ted around and he took that to mean the rules were off." She trailed off and bit her lip.

"Vicky, I love you" Ron sighed, "but just, think about what your parents would say if you lost your job because of Sean."

Ted moved to his desk, not trusting himself to speak. Ron seemed to take the excuse to move on to a different topic when Ted powered on his laptop.

"I've emailed you the leads I was working on before I hired you, Ted."

"Oh, excellent," Ted nodded as he followed the log-in instructions IT had left him with his laptop and dock set up. "I'll start on them tomorrow then."

"Perfect, and if you ever need anything, just give me a call. I'm not here at the office with you, but I'm always here if you need my help with any of this. I'm looking forward to growing this division and I'd love to see you pioneer it."

Ted smiled at Ron and he leaned back in his desk chair. "Thanks, Ron, I hope I can do you proud here."

"I'm sure you will." Ron grinned at him before looking behind him at Vic. He sighed and motioned towards the door. "Victoire, can I talk to you out in the hall?"

Victoire nodded and began to follow Ron to the door. She paused before turning back around. She closed a word document on her computer and shut it down before grabbing her purse. She gave Ted a small smile.

"I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Right, tomorrow," her smile seemed to pull a smile out of him.

"Right," she bit her lip and then turned around to follow after Ron.

Teddy let out a long breath as the door closed behind Vic.

He was so screwed.

#Endeavor #tedoire #tedoire fanfic #tedoire fanfiction #tedoire au #tedoire muggle au #teddy x victoire #teddy lupin x victoire weasley #ted x vic #teddy lupin #victoire weasley #teddy x vic #romance #fluff #muggle au #harry potter fanfiction #coworkers romance

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elmidol · 4 years

Text

Error: Program Not Found - Seven

Summary: You are in charge of programming the droids that work most closely with both General Hux and Kylo Ren. Unbeknownst to you, each of these two men have it in their heads that your relationship extends beyond the workplace. This causes things to escalate quickly when your two apparently secret boyfriends compare notes on their respective partner who is far too similar for their liking.

Read on AO3

“There are many things we only see clearly in retrospect.” - Haruki Murakami

Seven: Retrospection

Being a programmer, one thing that you were good at was focusing on the small details. This sometimes happened during retrospection when pertaining to conversations. There were nights that you would obsess over lines of programming that you had to edit, that bothered you in the final project. Other times, when it came to the aforementioned conversations, you would fall asleep while replaying the scenes over and over in your mind. This more often than not resulted in your dreams having a rather playful spin on what had happened in reality or else gave a warped perspective of what could happen in the future.

At this point, you were not quite asleep though you felt yourself teetering on the edge of consciousness. You wiggled your toes to try to jerk yourself back into wakefulness so that you were able to finish replaying what had occurred earlier in your head. You were specifically focused on how General Hux had described the moment he and Kylo Ren learned that their “girlfriend” was the same person.

General Hux had shot a glowering look in Kylo Ren’s direction before opening his mouth to reply to your request. “I was working on the damage report for the droids--the manufacturers will be reimbursing the cost, you can count on that--when Kylo Ren came to deliver the results of your test. Naturally I was unsurprised by your thoroughness. I stated as much, as I feel having a work-driven significant other holds many benefits. They understand the importance of their duty. Surprisingly, Ren agreed. He hadn’t believed we would see eye-to-eye on anything. I had not believed that he was intimate with anyone.” Kylo Ren started to curl his hands into fists as a means of controlling his temper. You caught the act out of the corner of your eye.

“When he stated that he worked in close proximity with his...girlfriend…” General Hux wrinkled his nose in a display of distaste, as though he could hardly believe that anyone would be interested in Kylo Ren. “...I stated that mine also worked at my side whenever possible. That she was not using her position to further her career. It was something similar to his own relationship. His, according to Ren, did well under pressure. More than mine would. I doubted this given that you--that my significant other had been placed in his path before as well as had to deal with senators.

“‘A coincidence,’ he had said. His worked with droids of multiple specialities. An odd coincidence, I thought, but said nothing. Instead I supplied that mine was the lead on many such projects. Discreet in showing her affection.” What? “Ren said that his girlfriend was less subtle, although she played it off by using her droid to help instigate things when in a more public venue.” No. That was just TeeArr being TeeArr.

“The lady I was with enjoyed being pampered, receiving gifts. She would pretend to be shy when they were purchased. Use them when they arrived. Ren’s significant other did not like gifts. They would distract her from work.” Both of them were wrong in their own way. Not surprising given their delusions.

You were jerked out of that particular memory as your mind wandered towards the slippers that General Hux had left for you in his quarters. They were still there as far as you knew, however you did not know if it would be rude to ask for them. He had believed you to be his girlfriend when he had bought them for you. You drew your legs up towards your stomach and reached down to feel your feet, which still had small blisters from the heeled shoes. Using the lotion now felt awkward despite the fact that General Hux had assured you that you could keep it. It was more that you could not help but wonder if he had ever expected to be the one to massage it into your feet. Such a thought gave you mixed feelings. On one hand, it was not an unappealing idea. On the other, you had never thought of him that way.

You had not thought of either of them that way until this past stretch of cycles.

Suddenly you felt more awake than tired. Your mind was starting to race over any action that you had performed while in their presence that would have led them to believe you were interested in them. You could admit to being more comfortable around them than others appeared to be. That stemmed from your job. It was part of your work to give proposals to the heads of organizations. You had done that before working for the First Order. The two men had hyper fixated on some of your character traits and ignored others. This had to be due to their limited socialization with others outside the workplace.

It made you feel like a surrogate for their feelings; romanced by proximity. You pinched the bridge of your nose as a pulsing began behind your eye. It was quickly becoming a pounding, the first sign of an oncoming headache due to stress.

“I pointed out that this could be indicative that the lady he was with did not want any physical tokens of affection that could be seen by others. It might well be detachment and their relationship was a matter of convenience.” Kylo Ren bristled at those words. You tried your best to not react, well aware that this had to have been the turning point in their conversation. Sure enough, things devolved rapidly into comparisons designed to shame the other.

Maker above, you needed sleep. There were numerous projects for you to work on and going into a new day with little to no sleep would be idiotic. While you were not opposed to using sleeping aids, you would rather not due to the grogginess that persisted through the majority of the next cycle. In many ways that was just as bad as no sleep. You pressed three fingers on either side of your temple and started to slowly massage the areas. You then applied some pressure near the bridge of your nose then stroked outwards along the underneath of your eyes, hoping to ease any pressure that might be sinus related. Focusing on this instead of what had happened earlier was helping your mind to quiet.

In time, it must have worked to help lull you to sleep being that the next thing you knew TeeArr was prodding you with one of his fingers rouse you from your slumber. You waved a hand in the air to dismiss the droid. TeeArr knew you too well, however, and so insisted that you sit up before he left the bedside. It was with a groan that you complied. The droid was too persistent for you to not. Glowering, you thought of how much of TeeArr’s obstinance could work well in the anti-procrastination droids. General Hux would not find such fault with your protocol droid after that!

General Hux.

The name elicited a groan as what had happened the previous day came rolling forward like a tidal wave. It was much too early to deal with that particular headache. You readied yourself for the day. It had been agreed that you would not work on the training droids. A second programmer was being brought it; this was standard procedure, although you were more sensitive to it after having been tested. Captain Phasma had you working with a different series of droids for her stormtroopers during reconnaissance missions. Human error could occur no matter how well trained they were. These droids had to be basic. Easy for a stormtrooper to destroy if the situation called for it, but tough enough that the enemy could not damage them so easily. What this meant was proper shields and cloaking. Limited intelligence as well. Much like a typical probe droid. Captain Phasma wanted this droid to be less conspicuous than those. Smaller, you thought. Compact, possibly something that could be hidden in a small pack that a stormtrooper could carry. Lightweight.

Already you had managed to again distract yourself from matters pertaining to General Hux and Kylo Ren. TeeArr walked at your side in the direction of the mess hall. His current silence did not alarm you. He was often more at ease in the days following a cleaning. This was not an uncommon occurrence with droids and you had often reasoned that the same could be said for people of many species. What was striking you as odd in regards to TeeArr’s behavior was that normally while on the way to a project assigned by Captain Phasma, his metallic footfalls would be louder. TeeArr was making a visible effort to be less conspicuous, which you noticed each time you glanced his way.

“Do you know something that I don’t?” you teased. The droid’s servos twitched, a rather humanoid gesture that stemmed more from its ability to observe and learn than any programming you had done. It struck you just why you felt so fondly for this droid; he was something like a child to you, your child. That Kylo Ren had chosen to strike off a limb instead of destroying it outright did have a greater meaning. He had managed to restrain himself in some capacity. A show of affection--a rather strange one that you did not know how to feel about. You sucked your lips into your mouth then allowed them to pop back into place. TeeArr had yet to answer your question. “TeeArr…” There was a warning growl that issued from you at the very end of the droid’s designation.

TeeArr set his optics on your face. “You are my Maker.” Cue you narrowing your eyes in equal amounts suspicion and confusion. “Should someone woo you, what does that make them to me?” This droid was most definitely like your child. The muscles in your arms jumped, your limbs beginning to shift towards TeeArr before you caught yourself. Offering TeeArr a hug of comfort in this public setting would draw more attention than what was already falling upon you. One of the stormtrooper pairs that were patrolling this sector had walked past, their helmets trained on you longer than was necessary. It was easier to convince yourself that this was because of your current company instead of whatever gossip had managed to spread.

“No one is wooing me, TeeArr. Don’t you worry about that.”

“Suppose they did,” he countered without missing a beat. You, having turned to resume walking, felt yourself faltering in your steps. The problem that you had with this conversation was not only that it was taking place in a public venue. It was that you had not considered entering a relationship any time soon. The workload on your plate was immense. If you absolutely wanted to, sure, you could balance a relationship and a career. You hadn’t wanted to though. Didn’t, you thought with a scowl. You hated that realization was dawning that a part of you would not mind it.

With a barked out order for TeeArr to follow after you, you began to march on. Your heavy footsteps startled some of the officers, who stiffened and either hurried to get out of your way or else looked then relaxed as they saw it was you instead of someone else. Instead of Kylo Ren. You felt a scream bubbling up in your throat. Others had compared your work ethics to General Hux. That had been something you viewed as praise. Now, should anyone say as much, you would hate that they had spoken to you at all. Just the same as you disliked the similarities you had with Kylo Ren. The impact each of these had was not dissimilar to a sucker punch to the gut. You did not want to think about them.

It was with a great sense of relief that you sank down into the chair at the work desk that had been prepared for your arrival. The surface of the desk was littered with three separate datapads as well as two comm units, one holoprojector, and a thermos filled with hot tea. You knew that it was tarine tea by the smell of it. It was difficult to keep from staring at it. Your face was arranged in a visible battle of perplexity and wonderment. The tea might have been forgotten by another, that was not unheard of. Captain Phasma could have ordered it to be delivered as she was aware of what the assignment entailed--a full shift, for a start. It might be something from General Hux. that was the possibility that made your stomach roil. You felt then heard it churning and set a hand overtop it.

TeeArr wrapped his metallic phalanges around the thermos and lifted it to inspect the container. “I do not believe it is poisoned.” That made you smile. You felt the tug at the corners of your lips. Tension eased from your shoulders, which sank a fraction from their previously rigid posture. TeeArr extended his arm towards you; it was the one that had been replaced after Kylo Ren had severed the old one. You stared at the shiny metal limb while using both of your hands to cup the sides of the thermos and bring it down onto the desk directly in front of you. “You should drink it.”

The frustration that you had felt with the droid for reminding you of the situation you were in with Kylo Ren and General Hux dissipated. You felt it slowly melt away, flowing off of you and disappearing until you were left with the sense of peace that only solitude and your beloved droid could provide. You were grateful that it was the latter. With the anger gone, you recognized that you did not want to be alone. The fact that you had misread so much human behavior exhibited by General Hux and Kylo Ren had left you feeling less human. You could understand your droid better than you could them. Your droid. Your child that you had built. You extended one hand in offering. TeeArr studied your palm, lifted his servos, and poked the center of your hand with one of its digits.

He had not taken your hand as you had intended, but somehow that was better. That he could misunderstand human behavior just as much as you did made you know that you were not some anomaly. It was inexperience.

You withdrew your hand simultaneous to lifting up the thermos of tarine tea to your mouth and taking a sip. It was not too hot and did not burn your tongue. Its bitterness hit hard, which helped you to wake up more. TeeArr slid one of the datapads closer to you when you moved to reach for it. This particular device held many of the requisites that Captain Phasma had outlined since she had last spoken to you. She did not want the droid to have a self-destruct feature because that risked a malfunction or the droid erroneously calculating that self-destructing would be beneficial. Another sip of tea and you were scrolling through her other notes. They were brief, exact. Much like how she talked to others, which was not often from what you had observed.

The door to the room slid open. You were tilting back the thermos and allowing more of the liquid to slide smoothly into your mouth. Jerking your hand away, you instead splashed the tarine tea onto the front of your shirt. “Sir!” You scowled when you looked down at the wetness.

General Hux strode over to the desk. He picked up one of the comm units then held his hand out for the thermos. You felt yourself blushing as you relinquished your hold on his drink. His eyes were locked with yours. General Hux set the rim of the thermos at his mouth without blocking his lips. You watched his tongue skim the surface that your mouth had been on when you had drank. The heat in your face grew, as did the pounding of your heart. That tongue traced his lips next. And then it was gone, back in his mouth, which you could not stop staring at.

“Good day,” he said before uttering your name and leaving. You did not even have the chance to respond. That likely saved you from stuttering and further embarrassment.

After the door slid closed behind the redhead, TeeArr looked directly at you. “What he did with his tongue, I saw in one of the holovids that--”

You held up a hand. “Stop!” Kriff, you had thought it would be impossible to feel so hot, to feel like you were on fire. The thought of what else that tongue could do had already existed. TeeArr’s words only made it worse. You pressed your thighs together. Bounced both of your feet then regretted it, the friction of your thighs rubbing together sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. Straight to your cunt, which clenched. “You are not allowed to hand me a thermos ever again.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes!” The pleasant mood that you had been in was wrecked once more. Except that you were not angry. You were aroused. You were frustrated. You were thinking of both General Hux and Kylo Ren in ways that you should not have been, in ways that they had thought of you.

#kylo ren x reader #general hux x reader #kylo ren imagine #general hux imagine #kylo ren smut #general hux smut #errorpnf

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box-bunny-grey · 4 years

Text

Who wants to hear a random jackass ramble about Shadowlands and not edit what he wrote? No one? Too bad.

I’ll start this by saying that this is from the perspective of a Mistweaver monk, Necrolord Covenant, who only does content through pugs who cleared Normal Nathria and as of now has never cleared past a seven keystone.

So when I wrote out an outline for this one late night for the hell of it, I was thinking I’d be positive. That I’d say I had problems with the game but the main meat of the game, the group content, was still good.

This opinion has shifted.

So I’m just going to ramble through what I put in my outline and then see if it looks good.

The Good (Sometimes)

So as I said group content feels good… When it’s good.

Mythic 0 was a lot of fun early in expansion because groups were generally patient. Like I’d have a plaguefall group that was just really positive even as we wiped a few times getting a feel for the second boss, and was super receptive to advice. Even with the Sanguine Depths being pretty aggravating at zero plenty of groups were kind, and hell being able to heal tanks through it as they rushed through felt rad. Even played with a friend tanking a few times and it felt awesome to just be around and do well.

Nathria is also great at feeling like a logical progression of things. A lot of raids can feel like there’s a bunch of quarters that just exist, but Nathria did feel like a real siege. Starting off dealing with the first line of defense, dealing with the animal tamers before they could unleash the hounds, dealing with an infestation that could come back to bite you if left alone, culminating in that portion in the defeat of a boss established earlier in the leveling experience and technically dealing with the first major threat: the anima leaking into the maw. From there you deal with an attempted thief in the armory that should not be left to their own devices, keep Kael’thas from becoming a weapon to remove that option from Denathrius, and deal with his most powerful sycophants. I actually really like Sludgefist as an obstacle to the finale bosses and the reuse of Shriekwing’s room: Shriekwing might have bloodied the floor but kept everything intact, Sludgefist if there to say “Denathrius doesn’t care if he has to take down the whole castle, at this point you’re too dangerous.” And the end of the Stone Legion Generals and Denathrius was a nice was to finish up the instance.

Then everything goes not so good.

Mythic+ woes

Mythic+ is fun… When your group is competent. I’m not even talking going full meta here. I’ve had awful DH tanks as well as DH tanks that react amazingly. The bad runs where the DH tries to act like running at the speed of sound far above his ilevel, and the good runs where when I die because there’s so much to keep track of the DH IMMEDIATELY starts gliding back to where I’d spawn to make sure we don’t lose the progress we’ve gotten on the mobs. I’ve had amazing WARRIOR tanks in runs, and that’s a class I’ve been told right now is at the bottom of the meta in so many ways.

But then you have groups that disperse as soon as they see there’s no bloodlust, or call for it repeatedly when no one can (look I pug I have to take what I can get, I’m lucky I don’t get full melee groups honestly). Or more recently a group that could not get past blightbone in Necrotic Wake because someone kept getting eaten by their mob and getting it to explode, causing AOE damage I could not heal through in a Mythic 9 at my gear. Or a group in Plaguefall that, when I died because I had to focus on healing because the tank wasn’t tanking the second boss right and the DH and the tank accuse me of not paying attention when that disease he does because the tank wasn’t doing their job is pretty hard to keep off and would make my life much easier of the tank remembered that but no it was my fault.

I am still mad.

Speaking of Plaguefall, that comes back to my favorite experience of assholes in Mythic+. Had two warlocks in party, so two soulstones for battle rez. I die. No soulstone. Alright, it’s trash, guess I gotta walk back. Do so. Get to boss. Die again, don’t even remember what. No soulstone. Okay, maybe they’re mad because I died to something easy. Someone asks about battle rez. “Sorry it’s on CD think the healer used it.” I say I got no battle rez. They get uppity. Other warlock used their soulstone on themselves. People keep talking about it. Other warlock gets angry because he thinks they’re talking about them. Leaves. We manage to 4 man it.

I was not happy and now I do not like Plaguefall.

Raid time

When I completed my first Castle Nathria is was about 3 AM. It was a pretty painless run, mostly one shots with a couple of hiccups. It started at 9 PM. This was a mostly good run. That’s a good run. Now imagine what happens when you have a bad run. But I figured hey, late night lost on a Saturday is fine, it seems like even pugs with no voice chat can finish raids on normal easy, so pugging, and I got 10/10 so I could always do earlier runs, especially guild runs. Should be fine right?

I’ve learned how many melee do not know what an interrupt is.

I’ve learned how bad some guides are when giving kill orders for heroic over normal.

I’ve learned how easily people can kill a raid not realizing very obvious tactics will leave death pools behind.

I’ve learned Council of Blood is the big obstacle for any pug to find out whether or not you should be here, even more than Sludgefist.

Which brings us to the final point.

Oh Boy! 35 Anima!

Cold to the point of sub-zero take: loot drops in Shadowlands suck. This is coming from someone who got lucky in one of his Castle Nathria full clears and got multiple pieces in a single week. But overall the frustration of groups, Myhic+ or Raid, gets exacerbated when you see that 35 anima drop, and then notice the asshole who kept dying got an upgrade.

Mythic 0 works out well enough, the dungeons are easy enough and with every boss in them dropping something, even with the weekly lockout, feels a lot better than putting your all into a raid only to get nothing. I’d say the deluge of loot from 0 helped keep me going since there was always the chance of something coming from them.

And honestly, the Great Vault doesn’t fix it. I’ve had a week where, out of a full clear Nathria and 2 slots of mythic+, four out of five of my options were rings. And that one was alright because if it didn’t drop a trinket I could have used that. But I’ve had weeks where every possible upgrade was a slot that was already covered, while other slots wound up being stuck. I’d say even the catch-up mechanism of covenant gear doesn’t work due to both the anima cost of upgrading (which is FAR above 35 anima) and the extra put on your repair costs since the gear is worth 250 gold to vendors. Not exactly enticing.

And remember, I said group content was the GOOD part of the expansion.

Solo Content: Boring, Aggravating

It’s all downhill from here.

The New, Painful World Quests

When World Quests were introduced in Legion, they were usually pretty simple. Either quests you did to level, rares that you might have missed, and occasional puzzles from the Kirin Tor. BFA seemed to follow that in general, with the Tortollan replacing the Kirin Tor and occasional more involved battlefront world quests. But these were generally so plentiful that more often than not, if you wanted emissary but didn’t like an activity it was easy enough to find the simple ones.

Shadowlands World Quests attempt to be all the more involved type, and of small enough number that you’re going to hate some of them by the end of it. Some are fun, I will admit. Playing with Draka’s dog, the Maldraxxus running of the olympic torch, Theotar’s parasol, (most of) the tea time ones, and even one where you fly through the air to collect pupas. But then you have others.

And I’d say my biggest headaches have a common covenant: the Kyrian. Poorly programmed flappy bird. Dumb ‘training’ simon says. One that should be simple, just kill mobs… Except you have a stationary zone you have to pull them to and god help you if someone else is killing in the zone, doesn’t notice you, and now you have to wait out the cooldown to drop another one.

The gear rewards suck, the anima amount varies how much it’s worth it, and every other reward straight up aren’t worth it.

Also a lot of treasures are obnoxious. Like I can’t even think of how to elaborate on it it’s just so many are not worth the effort to find out how to open them because so many rewards are, you guessed it! 35 Anima.

Stagnant Sanctums

When I first saw sanctums I thought I’d have the patience to keep a few going. Having leveled 2 alts I can confirm I haven’t had the energy to even attempt to start their anima/soul grind.

First, we have the Mmission board. Because I chose the Necrolords first I didn’t realize just how bad some people’s were. Then I started night fae I soon fond out how blessed I’d been. Maldraxxus’ unit types are frontline and backline splash damage, and your first follower is entire board splash damage. I forgot what the follower for night fae did, but the night fae units are a healer and a dot applying unit.

Guess how man missions are massive amounts of enemies and how many are single objective focuses.

But then we have the anima conductor, and at first I thought it was a neat idea. Get rewards for putting anima back into the Shadowlands, and when I saw the second tier daily quests had a chance to give 500 anima . That seemed amazing and considering some of the quests were obnoxiously long and boring I assumed it was encouragement if you didn’t have the patience for other 35 anima rewards.

Then they hotfixed it the day after I found out it was only Necrolords. Now the quests are just boring and obnoxious world quests with the extra step of picking them up.

So now not only did the anima grind lose something to make it less obnoxious, and the time gating of souls for sanctum features, in addition to a lot of features just being underwhelming. I decided to waste resources on my travel network’s second level for a slow moving necropolis around my zone. There has NEVER been a point where the necropolis was a faster way to get to my destination over just mounting up and running. But hey, at least the shitty necropolis did what it promised and didn’t have people upgrade to find out their transport network didn’t do what it promised.

And hell, I’m liking making abominations, but the fact that so many options to customize them are behind a really obnoxious RNG (no Chordy, it’s not around here) it gets all the more aggravating to have fun with it. And I like stuff like Roseboil asking me if I have a boo-boo and telling me I’m tough.

Though with all these problems I have with anima, I guess at least it not being tied to progression like artifact power and azerite. Yet so many things fun things tied behind it with such slow, time-gated progression is aggravating. So clearly the solution would be infinitely grindable things, right?

Well…

Why are the Avowed a Thing?

I assume the Avowed were originally what the Venthyr had instead of the Ember Court and then realized it was terrible but then left it in to annoy alchemists and Venthyr that want certain tints.

I am no Venthyr. But I am an alchemist.

Least the Shadestones make me plenty of money.

I do not know why this faction still exists other than annoyance, or why they’re infinitely grindable like they are. In the sense that WHY DOES IT TAKE SO LONG?

Covenant Woes

I do like the Necrolords. Didn’t even choose them because they were (somewhat) meta for MW monk. I did it because I liked the aesthetic and the concept of my covenant ability being just tossing dust at someone is hilarious to me.

But I only like the wings part of my mog. I do not like the look of the leather set on my troll. And every other mog looks like actual armor. I mean I get it: cloth is house of rituals, mail is intended to be house of eyes (since Draka wears it), and plate is house of the chosen. So house of constructs is what is left for leather. I still don’t like it.

And the issue I have with a ‘right covenant’ is that that has changed already for some classes. Remember how I said Necrolord was somewhat meta above? Well that’s because the meta changed, they found out Kyrian is generally best overall. Or people who played warrior, heard their DPS was universally Venthyr, and found out later people did the math and found out that the night fae was best to do Mythic+. Not the worst thing since changing is easy. But I get the feeling more and more frustration is going to come as the expansion goes on.

Speaking of things that will definitely get worse.

The Maw Fucking Sucks

“Well it’s intended to be a hostile land that you want to get in quickly and out of quickly!”

Yeah. Still sucks. Transport options suck. The place tries to act like it’s bigger than it is by removing mounting except for a select few mounts. The dailies do not give enough ve’nari reputation to be worth it, in addition to the fact that, outside of the one use purchases ve’nari’s items are rarely worth it (wow a skeleton key for the incredibly simple puzzle chests that’s single use!). I feel bad for people who can’t do twisting corridors and have to rely on the shadehound hunt to make time in there feel less hellish.

Apparently Worgen can use running wild to circumvent it and you know what? Good for them. I hope that never gets/got patched.

Well Torghast is fun right?

Torghast is Terrible

The entire thing’s a timesink. Not enough fun builds to actually make it feel worth it past what you do to get your legendary. One of the deathroach pets seems to sell for a bit so I guess that’s a positive. It really feels like they did exactly what they did with World Quests: took something other mmos generally use for levelling, in this case the deep dungeon, and assumed people wanted to do it at max level. And I’d say it’s a good way to know they’re out of touch with their playerbase considering they had to nerf the last layers when they went live.

I think I was able to get through Twisting Corridors solely because I was a monk and our anima powers are good, but without a large amount of stamina or the right powers early on it goes to shit quick. But I got my mount so never have to see it again.

Also reminder that when Twisting Corridors went live there were still placeholder powers.

Future Worries

While mostly Torghast related figured I’d make this its own section.

What’s going to happen when new content comes out and legendaries have to be higher ilevel? Will they simply up the soul ash cost or put in another aggravating currency. What about legendary memories? Will more be added or will they have to be upgraded? Will we be wearing multiple? And how will anima be handled as things go on.

Really the big issue I have with all of this is from what I can gather, the mindless grind of wow continues to get more and more aggravating as expansions go on, with rarely a reprieve in sight.

Nitpicks

This is shit even I understand is probably not a big deal or might be personal preference.

LET MY TROLL WEAR SHOES THE VENTHYR MAIL AND NECROLORD PLATE DOES IT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I’M PRETTY SURE SOME SHOES AT LEAST HAVE OPTIONS FOR HOOVED CHARACTERS.

Soulbinds vary in importance in covenant stories. Using Necrolord as an example, by the time you start the campaign Marileth is already done with his arc, Heirmir only exists to say they’re the Primus’ apprentice in smithing, and Emeni only shows up if you choose necrolord and is the only one with any prominence in the story. Necrolord is mostly the Azeroth trio each dealing with things, and it does have neat moments (always enjoyed the story of the Ashbringer, and Alexandros going “this is a large locked chest” crushing the lock, and then saying “it is now a large chest” was good) but I’d assume soulbinds would have more to do.

To compare, the Kyrian campaign seems to spend the most time with soulbinds, with Venthyr being second place, and Night Fae I think being a third. Further, odd things like a little under 2/3 of the Necrolord campaign being shared with other covenants, while Night Fae doesn’t interact with any in theirs. This is despite the fact that the Kyrian campaign interacts with all other factions, the Necrolord part being the same for that faction; and the Venthyr campaign interacts with Kyrian and Necrolords, once more the Necrolord version is shared. I guess I’d say I’d prefer they either commit to separate stories or overlapping uinversally, but maybe that’ll come with the next part.

Conclusion

Running out of steam for this random smattering of thoughts so conclusion.

Shadowlands I think is like most expansions. Launch is fun because everything is new, then the grind wears everyone down.

Make more loot drop for more difficulties or fix the great vault.

Really that’s all I got here’s a picture of my monk.

#Box's descent into madness #haven't used that in a while #THIS IS HOW I DECIDE TO USE MY SUNDAY I GUESS

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