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assortedseaglass · 2 months

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Talk Refined - Chapter Two

Michael Gavey x Reader

[Masterlist]

Summary: When Michael Gavey unwittingly insults a fellow Oxford student, they enter into a game of intellectual cat and mouse.

Content Warnings (this chapter in bold): Language, Smut, Saltburn Spoilers

Esme did not let you live your encounter with Michael Gavey down.

“You should have heard her. Like she was interviewing all over again!” At any given opportunity, she took the chance to tell the story of how her best friend had shot down the genius from Brasenose.

“Esme, everyone’s heard this story a hundred times,” you’d said when she once again brought the matter up at the pub. “And anyway, he didn’t even reply when I shouted at him. Just said he needed a piss.” People at the table tittered. Michael’s reputation as a genius made had its way around the university’s colleges. Mainly because he was the one telling them.

It was a fact begrudgingly agreed upon at each recounting of the tale. Esme would tell her college mates, or new friends at the pub, the story of you and Michael getting into a fight, and inevitably they would say “The self-proclaimed genius?”

“The maths nerd?”

“That dickhead?”

Before resigning to the fact that, despite his arrogance, Michael Gavey really was a genius.

“Didn’t you hear him shouting at dining hall first night?”

“Heard he got 100% on the maths admissions test!”

“Pretty funny really. If he wasn’t such a twat I’d invite him out, he’s great entertainment.”

Luckily for you, the spectre of his reputation loomed larger than the man himself who, since your encounter at the pub, you had not seen. Perhaps he was too embarrassed after his very public rejection. More likely, it was because you were preparing for your extended essay deadline. Burrowed in your room at the desk, or else tucked in a dark corner of the library, Esme almost had to drag you to leave your room these days.

“Should have done something on Gentileschi,” you muttered into the open book on the library table. Your endless studying on the use of women as decoration that formed the basis of your essay was slowly crushing you. “Wanted to do a feminist essay but this is fucking depressing.”

Esme shifted in her seat next to you, leant over your book to look at the pictures on the open page, then pushed it from your view. Before you could protest, she spoke.

“One minute not looking at that dull picture,” she gestured to the image of Turner’s Reclining Nude on a Bed, “-isn’t gonna hurt you. But I’ll tell you what won’t be depressing. My end of year party!” Esme grabbed your shoulders and shook you.

You laughed, stifling it behind your hand when a few pug-nosed students frowned at you.

“I thought you’d settled for a cheese and wine night? ‘Sophisticated with a chance of minor sluttiness’,” you quoted her and she winked.

“Yeah, well, it’ll still be a cheese and wine night,” she opened another textbook and riffled through the pages absent-mindedly. “With slightly more wine than cheese-”

“And about sixty people.”

“Only after the meal! Had to take the chance and get in there before Catton. No-one’d come otherwise.” Esme’s face dropped, a flash of worry crossing her bonny face at the prospect of competing with Felix Catton for the Party of the Year.

“It’ll be grand,” you grabbed her hand reassuringly. “Who wants Catton’s friends there anyway? Load of stuck-up snobs-”

“You sound like Gavey!”

You shot an irritated look at Esme. She grinned back and busied herself with the work in front of her. You looked at the title scribbled across the top of the page. “Semper femina: misogyny’s early beginnings.”. You really picked a corker when you saw her at the humanities social. You nudged her shoulder affectionately, rubbing off her last comment and, still a little distracted, look around the library.

Not all libraries in Oxford had vaulted ceilings of ancient oak, or were decorated with elaborately carved roses. Some had harsh fluorescent lighting and tiled navy carpets. It just so happened that you and Esme preferred the grander of buildings. So too, did most other students. When dedication and inspiration waned, the quickest way to feel inspired was to pop to the libraries with ancient tomes alongside the course textbooks, sharing silent exchanges with other students gazing in awe at the latticed windows and rows of paper possibility.

“By the way,” Esme whispered, not due to the setting but what she was about to say next. “Who are you bringing?”

Your eyes didn’t flicker from the book in front of you. “Bringing where?”

“To the cheese and wine party,”

You looked at her, a mixture of exasperation and amusement on your face. “Since when did I have to bring someone?”

“Well,” Esme fully turned in her seat to look at you. “You don’t, but I’m bringing Eleanor-”

“Pretty girl from the pub.”

Esme nodded and continued counting people on her fingers. “Laura’s boyfriend is visiting that weekend, Holly’s bringing some rugby lad, Joe’s best mate is coming and the other three all have boyfriends. Bit sad if you’re the loner.”

“How can I be a loner at a party?”

“You know what I mean! Come on, it’s the end of the year, loosen up a bit. Doesn’t have to be a bloke, just pick someone!”

You thought a moment. Though you hated to admit it, Michael Gavey had been right; a lot of the people on your History of Art course were public school wankers and horsey girls fast-tracked to jobs in their parents’ cosmopolitan art galleries.

Nope. No-one there you could bring, and all of Esme’s friends were already going.

“I don’t know!” You despaired, slumping back in your seat comically in mock defeat.

Esme laughed. “Tell you what, next person that comes round that corner,” she pointed to the last bookshelf of a long row, right by the library entrance. “You’ve got to take. Deal?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll buy your cheese and wine for the night.”

You stared at her. Trinity term was almost up, and so too was your scholarship loan. “Fine.”

Esme laughed excitedly and stared excitedly at the shelves. You did so with apprehension. A minute passed and no-one rounded the corner. A group of gorgeous boys left the library, but not one person entered.

“Looks like you’ll be coming alone after all.” You pinched Esme’s side and she giggled. “Aha!” She pointed behind you and your stomach dropped. Turning slowly, you faced your fate. Date.

A wizened old man no taller that the fourth shelf shuffled along the wooden floor, his worn leather shoes squeaking with every step. There were more lines on his face than the tube map.

“No.”

“Don’t be a bitch!”

“People don’t want their fucking lecturers there, Esme.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “But it has to be the next person or my share of the food is on you.”

“Fine.”

You both stared at the bookshelf. The wizened old man shuffled past you, and soon the sound of his leather shoes faded. You glanced over your shoulder at Esme. “This is stupid-”

“Oh. My. God.” Esme was looking past you, and what had momentarily been shock was turning to unbridled glee.

“What?” You span in your chair. “No. Absolutely not.” Panic prickled the hairs of your neck. You whipped back to face Esme. She was laughing. “I can’t. Fuck. No!”

“This is brilliant,” Esme clapped her hands together. Some students shushed her and she sent them a two fingered salute. “He’s coming this way! Go on, ask him!”

You took a deep breath and, with growing unease, turned to face your unknowing date.

Michael Gavey was walking stiffly along the rows of bookshelves. The muscles of his jaw were set in a tight line; he wasn’t here to browse; he knew what he wanted and was making his determined way towards it. You watched him carefully, waiting until the perfect moment to speak. How the hell were you going to ask?

“Let’s wait a minute-” Esme made to cut you off but you continued quickly. “Just to see where he goes. I don’t want to ask in front of everyone.”

Esme huffed but nodded, and you both went back to watching him.

“This feels creepy,” you said, watching as he got closer.

“All we’re doing is looking at him.” Esme said matter of factly. But that wasn’t quite true. It felt altogether more like you were studying him. Something about Michael Gavey meant you couldn’t look away.

Just as when you last saw him, his clothes looked second hand. Or like something an aunt would by. A crisp, short-sleeved shirt, starchly ironed, tucked into a pair of beige cargo trousers. Vile. Around his belt swung a number of carabiners, one containing his keys, another a collection of USB sticks. They jangled as he walked past.

You ducked your head to avoid being seen. Esme scoffed. You kicked her under the table.

The two of you watched his retreating back. You noticed you weren’t the only ones looking at him. A few other students, some boys smirking and some girls, were watching him to. None indicated that they knew him personally, for none sent him a smile or a wave. They simply watched as he passed. His reputation really did precede him.

You tried to think on what it was that made Michael Gavey so hard to ignore. He had done nothing today but enter the library and, by now, everyone knew him to be a stuck-up knobhead. So what was it that was making everyone stare?

Perhaps it was the rigidity with which he walked, so upright and solid. For one so thin, you imagined that if someone bumped into him now he would just continue walking as though nothing happened. Maybe it was the unnerving way in which his grey eyes stared. You remembered them from before. How he analysed people, unblinking, as he spoke to them, dissecting every minutia of their movement behind his glasses.

Could it be, that underneath the dreadful clothes and frankly alarming attitude, he was quite handsome? You blushed at the thought and turned away from Esme.

In another life, with better clothes, better glasses, a kinder face, he might have been attractive. Afterall, his hair was that Gisele Bündchen colour girls in your sixth form tried unsuccessfully to get from the bottle. His face was all angles, like the bassist in some boy band. Not front man handsome, but with a little something that appealed to the weird girls. And he was tall. God, was he tall. Not Felix Catton tall, but after him he’d been the tallest at the pub. You remembered the way he’s unfurled his body uncomfortably from the chair. Even now, he was almost half the height of some of the old bookshelves. When he came to a stop, depositing his Tesco carrier bag on the table with a rustle, his shoulder bumped into one of the shelves, and you noticed how broad they were, accentuated by the black leather belt holding up his trousers. Who’d have thought it? Michael Gavey vaguely good-looking. Shame he was a prick.

“There you go,” Esme whispered in your ear as Michael disappeared between two shelves. “Perfect chance.”

Your mouth went dry. You’d momentarily forgotten the reason you were both watching Michael. Sensing your apprehension, Esme turned you by the shoulder and looked you deep in the eye. “It’s fine, I’ll help.” She was loving this, and the two of you spent the next five minutes working out how to approach the Bastard from Brasenose.

You tried to get rid of Esme as quietly as possible.

“Just let me do it on my own!” you hissed.

“I don’t trust you, not after last time!” She was pushing you towards the bookshelf Michael was browsing. You were digging your feet in.

“Please, just let me-”

“No,” Esme giggled, pushing you closer to the shelves. “You’ll either have an argument or not ask at all. I want to see this.”

Your hand gripped the wooden bookcase just as you arrived and blocked her from going any further. She pushed against you, trying to force you towards Michael.

“I’ll do it, Esme, just give me a second!”

“Just get on with it, for God’s sake!” she whispered with a shove.

“Ouch! You’re hurting me!”

“Can I help you?”

You both jolted. Michael was staring at you, his hands balled into fists at his side. He looked…nervous. Esme had clearly pushed you closer to him than you’d thought.

“No, er, sorry,” you took a step backwards only to be blocked by Esme.

“Oh,” Michael relaxed a little, a tight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s you.”

You stared at him. “You don’t need to sound so offended by my presence.”

“You’re the one stumbling around the library hissing like a banshee.”

You were about to retort when Esme caught your arm warningly. You looked back at her with annoyance. She simply nodded at you and gestured to take a deep breath.

“Sorry, Michael,” you said. He flinched a little as you said his name, not that you noticed. Esme did. “Erm,”

“She has something she wants to ask you, Michael.”

“Ask me?”

Fucking hell, here goes. You tired to smile at him. He stared back blankly. Why did he make everything so bloody difficult?

“Yeah, um,” you stepped forward and leant against the bookshelf for support, to make it seem less formal. “Well, Esme is having an end of year party-”

“A dinner party,” Esme cut in.

“-and we wondered.”

“She wondered!”

“We wondered,” you said louder, drowning out your friend. “If you’d like to come? Maybe?”

Michael stared at you. His head jerked almost imperceptibly, as if it had suddenly fallen out with his neck, and he scoffed quietly. “Is this a joke?”

“What?” You and Esme said together.

“Are you taking the piss?”

“What? No-”

Michael placed the book he was reading back on the shelf and faced you both fully. “Get out of the way please, you’re blocking the exit.”

“Michael,” he stopped again when you said his name.

“Honestly, we’re not taking the piss.” Esme said kindly.

“We saw you come in, and Esme keeps reminding me what a bitch I was at the pub.” Never mind the fact that you were an absolute arsehole. “And we just thought, as a way to apologise, you might like to come to the party? Fresh start?”

“I don’t do parties.”

“It’s-a-cheese-and-wine-night-actually.” Esme said quickly.

“Right,” he continued staring at you. The longer he did it, the more you regretted asking. Fucking blink. He glanced quickly back at the shelves of books, and screwed his eyes tightly shut, as if working out something impossibly difficult. When he opened his eyes again, you weren’t sure whether he was going to scream or cry.

Then you realised he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking past you. With surprising force and speed, Michael pushed past the both of you.

“Oliver Quick.”

Esme looked at you with excitement. Without a word, you both hurried to the end of the bookcase. There he was. Oliver Quick, caught in a staring contest with Michael Gavey. Oliver glanced quickly at the two of you, eagerly poking your heads around the shelf to get the gossip.

Michael hadn’t noticed. “You look different.”

“Do I?” Oliver sounded bored and you wanted to smack him. What was it with the boys at Oxford? He turned away from you all, but Michael wasn’t done with him.

“He’ll get bored of you.” A pang of pity twisted your stomach. Esme had been right. Oliver’s abandonment at the pub had hurt Michael more than he let on.

Oliver stopped and turned around. “Excuse me?”

You glanced at Michael, waiting for his retaliation with bated breath. He said nothing.

“G’wan, Mikey,” Esme whispered.

Oliver walked away, but not before Michael could twist the dagger. “Bootlicker.” He enunciated every delicious, vicious syllable.

Oliver looked back again, only to cast an uncomfortable look at Michael and see Esme swearing at him behind Michael’s back. “For that Michael,” she clapped her hands. “You can be guest of honour!”

Notes: Short one this time but I’m getting back into writing by doing shorter chapters. SO excited to write the party.

Tags: @lexwolfhale* @theoneeyedprince @lovebittenbyevans @fan-goddess @ellrond @very-straight-blog @arcielee @tsujifreya @liv-cole @myfandomprompts @annoyingkittydetective* @elizarbell @solisarium @thekinslayersswordhand @nightdiamond8663* @slowlysparklyninja* @kate-to-the-ki @bellaisasleep @xxxkat3xxx @lacebvnny @moonriseoverkyoto @ewanmitchellcrumbs @moonlightfoxx @pendragora @aemonds-holy-milk @st-eve-barnes @sapphire-writes @babyblue711 @targaryenrealnessdarling @slytherincursebreaker @bottlesandbarricades @valeskafics @anjelicawrites @exitpursuedbyavulcan @barbieaemond @chattylurker @itbmojojoejo @humanpurposes @cyeco13 @heimtathurs @in-a-mountain-pool @aemondsfavouritebastard @marysucks-blog @rheaxes @xivilivix

*could not tag

#ewan mitchell #michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #ewan mitchell x reader #saltburn #oliver quick #michael gavey x oc #assortedseaglass

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definitelynotafurinasimp · 7 months

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Mona with a reader that puts on an act around everyone except her

Characters: Mona x gn!reader

warnings: like 99% two idiots shooting playful insults at each other, with a little bit of hurt/comfort in the second half.

a/n: read a manga with a somewhat similar premise, got a funni idea and decided to write something for once. Also

WE'RE BACK ON THE SIMPING-FOR-MONA EXPRESS! LET'S FRICKING GOOOOOOOOOO

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Mona

If one were to ask the citizens of Mondstadt about you, one would be bombarded with tales of an enthusiastic, kind and outgoing youngster, helping whoever they could while quickly finding their way into people’s hearts. There weren’t many around that fit the role of the textbook definition of “optimism” better than you, and yet if one were to ask a certain Fontainese Astrologer the same question as before, the most one’d get would be a poorly hidden roll of her eyes followed by a short “what about them?”.

Mona wasn’t stupid and neither were you, she saw through your act, with or without her powers and you knew she did… After all, it were the first words she ever spoke to you.

“Don’t even try putting on that act around me, I know it’s fake.”

For most people, such an uncalled for call-out would have been enough to drive them away, leaving Mona to spend her beloved time alone studying everything stars related, only unfortunately for her, it seemed to have the exact opposite effect on you.

The moment Mona heard knocks on her door that matched the melody of a famous little childrens tune, she closed her eyes for a moment before letting out a sigh, taking one last glance at her astrology notes before standing up, walking over to the door and opening it.

“Hey Mona, I’m sorry for not asking if it’s okay to come over first, but I walked past your house and just couldn’t stop myself from paying you a little visit”, you explained with a bright smile, your voice sounding so sweet the Astrologer could feel her blood sugar soaring to unhealthy levels… how did the rest of Mondstadt stand you??

“May I come inside? I brought you food and this blue flower that I found, it reminded me of you so I couldn’t help but buy it”, you continued upon seeing her unchanging poker face, presenting her with a basket of food in one hand, and the previously mentioned flower in the other, slipping past her and into her home without waiting for an okay.

“Can you stop?” Mona asked, almost feeling a hint of embarrassment at your behavior, yet if it was because of the flowers or simply as a side effect of her cringing, she didn’t know.

“Stop with what-?", the door closed, immediately causing your voice to drop a few notes. "Ugh finally, took you long enough to close the door”, you stopped the act, your now empty hand moving to your throat, feeling it getting hoarse.

Without saying another word, you slipped out of your shoes before quickly walking over to her couch and letting yourself fall onto it, letting out a long and tired sigh once your back made contact with it, causing your host to gradually grow more annoyed.

“You’d better bring something good today if you don’t want me to lock the door on you next time”, Mona threatened before taking a look into the basket you brought with you.

“Only the best for the best Astrologer in town”, you responded in a joking manner only to whip your head around the moment you heard her groan.

“You say that, but didn’t I make my opinion about expensive food clear?”, she asked, instantly recognizing what you had bought… Sure, it wasn’t something only royals could afford, but definitely above the price tag of her usual salad.

“You say that, but didn’t you look as if you were in pure bliss the last time you ate this?”, you mocked her using her own words, causing Mona’s face to turn red, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of fury.

“Weren’t you supposed to be ‘nicest, most helpful and most likable person’ around?”, she shot back, causing your infuriating smile to grow bigger.

“Weren’t you supposed to-”, you were just about to counter, only to shut up when your behavior earned you a deadly glare, immediately moving your hand over your heart as you feigned sadness.

“And here I thought I could finally be liked for my true self.”

Truth be told, Mona didn’t mind you too much, sure you tended to barge into her home unannounced only to shoot one snarky comment after another, but hanging out with you was kinda fun… even if it was in a strange, somewhat unexplainable way. She wouldn’t leave the door unlocked around the time you usually came over if she didn’t and most definitely wouldn’t have any problems throwing you out if you did nothing but annoy her.

“Please, oh great Magicia- I mean Astrologist ‘Mona Megistus the Astrologist’, do your Astrology stuff to look into my future and tell me if I’ll ever be accepted for who I am”, you somehow managed to pull off your dramatic monologue without completely breaking out in laughter, the same mocking smile on your face as before… although it didn’t reach your eyes this time.

Usually, Mona would have hit you over the head for this one, and yet she remained silent, staring at you as if she saw right through you, only to finally open her mouth once again.

“I could do that, but I doubt it will change anything. So are you sure just dropping your act wouldn’t be a faster way?”, she asked, only for the complete lack of any hint of sarcasm to playfulness to cause a look of nervousness to wash over your face, although you quickly replaced it with your usual smile..

“At this point packing my things and moving to a different nation would be easier”, you let out a small laugh before looking away from her, your gaze firmly fixating on the ceiling… or at least it did for a few seconds.

“Then if you ever decide to do it, don’t go to Fontaine”, Mona’s voice brought you back to reality, causing you to stare at her once again, although with nothing but silent questions on your mind.

“There’s still that old hag there, so I wouldn't be able to follow you.”

If she had said this under any other circumstances, Mona would feel the urge to bash her face in rather than having to hear you jump at the opportunity to tease the ever loving crap out of her, this time however the silence between the two felt surprisingly calming both of you left to silently enjoy the moment. A moment of reassurance and understanding only like minded friends could enjoy toge-

“Are you absolutely sure you aren’t in love with me? That sounded so cheesy even I can’t help but slightly cringe.”

“You just had to ruin it, didn’t you?!”

#mona imagines #mona x reader #mona x you #mona megistus #mona megistus x reader #mona #mona genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader

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iguessthisisanewobsession · 1 year

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*Look at that one ghost pregnancy carving meme*

Sure, they're normal pregnancy carving... And then they're weird ones. Like, yes, he can't eat a batarang, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to.

Have a little crack I guess! Also bonus point if it's angst for the others batfam members

Angst, you say?

Jason came out of a daze to the sound of broken glass.

Why was he in Tim’s room? He remembers getting up to look in the kitchen. Nothing was appealing at the moment but he was hungry and Dr. Leslie mentioned he was a little below weight.

He was looking and nothing was appealing but then he felt a pull and-

“Jason, what the fuck.”

Tim looked disheveled, clearly back from his patrol.

Why was he freaking out? Sure, Tim finding him here was strange but-

Jason was suddenly aware of something papery in his mouth.

“Wha-?”

“Jason why?”

Tim looked like he had shot him, and as Jason looked around him he realized that he may as well.

Around him laid a shredded old box.

Tim’s old photo box.

He remembers when he was first reached out to his family again after the mess of reintroduction.

The olive branch Tim held out to him. The night they sat in the lounge as Tim shyly showed him the years of photos. They were up until dawn reminiscing. It was the first time he started to think of the two of them as brothers.

They weren’t all ruined but quite a few had obvious teeth marks and tears.

Shit.

“I-I don’t- fuck! Baby bird I’m so sorry. I don’t even remember..”

Jason raised a frustrated palm to his eyes at tears started to pool.

Fuck, Tim was shutting down.

“It’s- it’s fine, I was in the middle of digitizing the photos anyways. Never know what will happen, you know?”

Jason removed the photo from his mouth and tried to flatten it out what was left. It was one of the one’d around his debut as Robin, sitting on a gargoyle under a moonlit sky.

Jason gently got off his knees with a wobble before he gently took his brother into his arms.

“I-I already got most of them taken care of.. It’s fine.. you didn’t- the baby been doing a lot of strange things to you. You nearly bit a batarang last week- it’s not- something like this was bound to happen and-“

Tim made a keening he folded himself into Jason’s side.

Looking around at the carnage as Jason tried his best to comfort his brother as he wailed.

“This shouldn’t’ve happened. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

He muttered as he rubbed up and down Tim’s back.

“Okay… Okay.. How about we go downstairs huh? We can go downstairs, and I’ll make us some hot chocolate ‘n’ we can put on one of those shitty b-rated horror movies we love to roast.”

Avoiding what Jason could only assume was a cup of coffee on the floor, he closed the door and gently guided his little brother down the hall.

Tags for hoodlums:

@numbuh-7-knd @phoenixdemonqueen @thegatorsgoose @storm-and-fire @elvesandlanterns @moedango @skulld3mort-1fan @apointlessbox @samgirl98 @thedragonqueen1998 @booberrylizard @idek618 @littlefeather345 @iosonotoro @dxrksong @moonfirearc @terzatheunderscorerima @moedango

#Jason after he gets Dick to clean up the mess in Tim’s room has a mental freak out once Tim is settled to sleep #he feels so guilty #he ends up badgering clockwork to help him get copies of all the originals #dp x dc #writing prompt #dc x dp #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #mother hood au #you asked for angst #if you hadn’t I would’ve shit posted #me: hmm what would be heart wrenching and hard to replace?#originally I was going to have Jason eat Damian’s art supplies #but then a old john mulaney quote came to me #it’s the one thing you can’t replace #my asks #mpreg

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third-generation-female-warrior · 1 month

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How The Bad Batch Season 3 should end

But it gets progressively less likely...

The Bad Batch (sans Omega) are all Rogue One’d. Fennec Shand takes Omega on as her apprentice and teaches her how to protect herself.

The Bad Batch (sans Omega) are all Rogue One’d. Asajj Ventress takes Omega on as her apprentice and teaches her how to protect herself.

Omega leaves the Bad Batch to protect them, but ends up running with Hera for a hot second before becoming a medic/pilot in the rebellion.

The Bad Batch (sans Omega) are all Rogue One’d. Omega is adopted by Rex and the rest of the Seelos Trio (Gregor and Wolffe). The reason why she doesn’t appear in Star Wars: Rebels is because she was getting space groceries on that exact day. Rex left a note on the fridge explaining where they went.

On a final confrontation with Hemlock, Omega uses her newfound Force abilities to summon a pod of purgil to crash into Tantiss and subsequently eject her and Hemlock into another Galaxy for the next 10 years.

During the ending credits, instead of playing the theme, they play a funky, slightly older song where the royalties aren’t crazy expensive to use and every character that appeared in the show dances along to this song very much in a homage to the ending of Scooby Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed (2004).

#tbb #the bad batch #tbb s3 #tbb s3 spoilers #tbb omega #omega bad batch #star wars

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pigeonwit · 3 months

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omg I love seeing you in your Noah kahan era

“What were you expecting?!” Davey snaps. “That I’d just – just give up on everything I wanted, turn around and rot here forever?!” “Yes!” Jack cries. “Because I would’ve been rottin' here with you! The world goes to shit, and we’ll still be here, that’s what you said! Well-!” He tosses up his arms, gestures across the yellow, stinking heap of the fields lying fallow. “The world’s goin' to shit, Dave, and I’m still here, so where’re you?!” Davey blinks at him for a moment, a small puff of cloudy air being pulled from his chest. Good. Jack wants to pull him, yank him around a little. Let him feel what it’s like to have your guts pulled out of you. Davey’s fluid for a moment, ripped-raw with nothing to contain him – and then he stiffens, his jaw welding shut, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole body becoming an iron wall. “That,” he seethes, wet and scalding, “is so fucking unfair. You can’t’ve seriously expected me to just – just sit here with no future, no friends, nothing-!” “You had me!” Jack cries, begs, the words tearing holes in his throat. “You and me, and that’s enough – that’s what you said, Davey, that’s what you said-!” “Because I didn’t have anything else!” It rings across the valleys clear and even. Like when Owen DeLancey got so sick of his dog that he took it up the creek and came back alone. And everyone knew – even Davey, even little Les at only three years old – everyone knew the second he’d dragged the poor thing out of the house by the scruff what was coming. And Jack didn’t understand a lick of it, didn’t understand why everyone was looking so sombre and why Medda invited Oscar and Morris of all people ‘round for dinner, until the shot rang clear all the way home. And he felt like the wool’d been pulled on him. Like everyone knew he was making a fool of himself, walking around like nothing bad had happened, and no one’d bothered to tell him. Makes you wonder how the dog felt, is the thought that that memory always leads back to. “Right,” Jack nods. His throat flexes in something that’s meant to be a laugh, but it comes out warped and cracked, spread too thin. Davey presses his hand to his mouth, like he could cram the words back down to where they came from, from the little acid pit behind Davey’s heart. “Jack…” Davey trembles. “Jack, I didn’t-” “So that’s me, huh?” Jack sniffs. The cold bites his nose, his eyes, his lips. He scrubs his jacket over his face, feels the rough fibres scraping the skin. It warms him enough, though. Burnt trails on his skin. “The fuckin' consolation prize, is that it? So just in case it all fell apart, if you lost out on what you really wanted, at least you’d still have me.” He snorts bitterly. “At the very least.” “That’s not-!” “Y’know, maybe you’re right.” Jack says, his words fracturing into frost on the wind. “Maybe you shouldn’t come back for the holidays. Just not worth it, right?” Davey stares at him, quivering like ice about to break. There’s a tremor in his jaw. The corners of his eyes have tinged red from the cold. From the cold. And there’s a downward turn at the corner of his mouth that says he’s a second away from screaming. “Yeah.” Davey spits, acid curling from his lips. “Yeah, y'know what, I think you’re right.” He stuffs one hand in his pocket, clumsy and jolting like his nerves are made of wires, and pulls out the keys with frozen, rigid fingers, flinging them at Jack’s chest. “Happy fucking Thanksgiving.”

do you really. do you REALLY though.

#BROUGHT TO YOU BY: 'all my love' 'she calls me back' 'everywhere everything' 'new perspective' and jac and fizz entertaining my rambling.#newsies #davey jacobs #david jacobs #jack kelly #pigeon scribbles #javid #javey #ask #anon #stick season au #(i'd call it a small town au or something but. no it's stick season)

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definegodliness · 10 months

Text

I wrote a heart today to care, Because the old one's wear and tear But shows that true love wanes to be A haemorrhaged soliloquy That never leads to anywhere.

I did not want this wordy spare, Nor will I claim it can compare, But for the sake of all who plea I wrote a heart.

I wrote it bold, and free, and fair; So bright one'd need to shield its glare, All to make see love sets you free, As such, your gift, once, given me; Because some ones may mean one pair, I wrote a heart.

--- 27-6-2023, M.A. Tempels ©

#rondeau

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ryehouses · 1 year

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Did the other Skiratas ever talk to Boba?

just for you, hell yeah they did!

set post-ast in some nebulous time after the sarlacc pit! cw for the usual re: clones and also re: boba and also re: clones and boba.

in which there are feelings that are discussed instead of stabbed, which is an improvement over most fett family reunions.

Alright, thought Ordo Skirata, halfway up the side of a tower, clinging to a smooth sandstone wall and hoping that Prudii’s distraction out in the sands had drawn most of the palace guards and the other Mandalorians and hopefully the mand’alor himself off to investigate, I might be too old for this.

That wasn’t the sort of thing that Ordo would ever admit out loud, of course, because the thought of handing over leadership of the clan to any one of a dozen or so Skirata children made Ordo itch beneath his armor, but he could admit it to himself inside the quiet of his own buc’ye.

Damn the kaminiise anyway, he thought. Forty-six years in the galaxy looked and felt like sixty or seventy, to Ordo. Seventy was too old to be climbing up towards in the dead of night and organizing raids against sovereign – or sort of sovereign, because Ordo, Mereel and Jaing hadn’t actually stuck around after that business with the sarlacc to figure out what the new ruling structure of Mandalore was going to be – territories.

Ah, well. Regrets were for the dead and Ordo wasn’t dead yet, no matter what his protesting knees or his aching shoulder said, and he was here to do a job. Only the job mattered right now.

Why Ordo’s chosen to assign himself the task of climbing up a heavily-guarded tower in the middle of nowhere on karking Tatooine, of all places, was still somewhat of a mystery to Ordo, but he’d already gone to the trouble of starting. The only thing to do was see it through.

Boba Fett had kitted his palace out like a real morut. Ordo hadn’t even been able to approach from the air; Fett had some kind of finely-tuned motion sensor at the crown of his palace, and even a bird flying past would trigger the palace’s security sensors.

Ordo hoped that coming from the ground would at least gain him entry into the palace. Fett could hardly expect anyone to climb up two or three hundred feet of wind-worn desert sandstorm and so far no one’d picked Ordo off f the wall, but he still had a good sixty feet of climbing left.

Far out in the desert, there was another distant boom. Night reigned over Tatooine. The moons were dark. Ordo’d swapped his usual beskar’gam for Vau’s old blacks, counting on the darkness to further hide him.

Prudii better not overdo it, he thought. I needed the mand’alor out of the palace, not a declaration of war.

After the Mandalorian summit – after the little dust-up with the Hutts here on Tatooine, too, which had admittedly been a bit of fun for Ordo and his brothers – Clan Skirata had retreated carefully back to their own territory. Mereel’d wanted to come to the summit just to see what the others were doing, but Ordo had no intention of wading back into Mandalorian politics. He’d watched Mandalore tear itself to pieces once already.

But as the days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months, something about the whole experience – the summit, the battle, Boba karking Fett of all people allying himself with Mandalorians, when he was infamous among the clones for rejecting any and all attempts at burcyan – had stayed with Ordo like an itch beneath his armor or a loose thread on his kama, and the itch had become curiosity and the curiosity had become, well.

This, thought Ordo.

There was no reason to try to talk with Boba Fett. Ordo honestly couldn’t say if he’d ever exchanged more than a word or two with him, back in the days of Kamino. Fett didn’t care about the tatug’ad. He never had.

Ordo had never cared much for any clone outside of his close circle of brothers himself, and ten years ago if Ordo’d been invited to a Mandalorian summit and found himself looking at the Prime’s chosen son, Ordo would have turned around and slipped away, content to keep his clan and their business out of Fett’s.

But something Mereel had said to Ordo, before they’d gone to Krownest, stuck with him.

“The last time you saw him, he was ten,” Mereel had said. “Remember how awful your kids were at ten?”

Boba Fett had been an unpleasant boy, on Kamino. A perfect copy of Jango Fett, complete with the Prime’s sour temper. But he had been ten.

And we left him behind, thought Ordo, craning his neck up to look at his destination. He was nearly there; Fett’s rooms were open on all sides to the wind and the sky, protected when he needed them protected by blast doors and motion sensors. Fett, however, clearly hadn’t been expecting someone to be jare’la enough to try climbing up the spire.

ARC training was good for something.

The itch that Ordo felt under his armor – that he’d felt for the first time on Krownest, watching Fett stride across the ice, surrounded on all sides by enemies – was guilt, Ordo thought. Kal’buir had taught his boys to look out for their own. Ordo had always done his best to look out for his brothers, for Jaing and Kom’rk and Mereel and A’den, for Prudii and Fi and the other clones who’d left the GAR, made their way to Mandalore, to freedom. But he hadn’t looked after Fett.

He’s a man now, Ordo thought. Has been as long as we have. He doesn’t need us to look after him. Has never needed us to look after him.

Fett hadn’t liked admitting that he was literally one of millions, on Kamino. He’d thought the fact that the Prime had chosen him meant that he’d been better than all of the other clones.

But he was alone. No clone – not even an exact clone of Jango Fett himself – had been made to be alone.

That guilt had grown and grown. Now Ordo was here, hooking his fingers around the edge of the ledge that circled Fett’s rooms at the top of the tower, and his brothers were off drawing Mandalorians away so that Ordo could talk with Fett.

It is my duty to offer him aid, if he needs it, thought Ordo. Only a few on Krownest stood for him.

Several members of Death Watch had attended the summit on Krownest. Many kyr’tsad survivors had done their best to stamp out any trace of the True Mandalorians Fett was no True Mandalorian, but he’d had his share of enemies there on the lake.

Mereel and I went over this, he thought. One conversation. One offer of aid. Then I’m gone, and I can set any guilt I have aside.

Ordo got a decent grip on the ledge and hauled himself upright, his shoulders complaining. He came up off of the wall in a crouch and scanned the room. Fett’s rooms were wide and spacious, cooled by night air. He had only a little furniture. A long table strewn with datapads, a few chairs, a bed. Ordo straightened and took a step into the room. He was pleased that the motion sensors hadn’t been triggered. He pulled his helmet off and tucked it under an arm, scanning the shadows for Fett.

He didn’t have to look very hard. Ordo took another step into the room and Boba Fett himself stepped out of the shadows, kitted in full armor but for his helmet, and leveled a weapon at Ordo.

“Don't move. Who are – ah,” growled Fett, pausing when he caught sight of Ordo’s face. Fett had aged naturally. He was Ordo’s age, maybe a few years younger, but he hadn’t grown twenty years in the space of ten, thirty years in the space of fifteen.. Ordo’s hair had gone grey since they had all been children on Kamino, his face creased with age. Most looked at him now and didn’t see a clone.

Fett did. His eyes widened. Ordo watched him with interest.

He doesn’t see me as an enemy, then, he thought. That was – a surprise. Ordo’d watched Fett, at that summit. Fett was hostile on a good day.

But he didn’t rush in for an attack. Fett was armored, everything but his helmet snapped into place, and he held a dark, dangerous-looking staff in one hand. His face could have been carved from stone. But he didn’t lunge.

Maybe time has mellowed him as it has the rest of us, Ordo thought. I can work with that.

He raised his hands to show Fett that they were empty and said, “Boba Fett. I’m not here to start a war.”

“You’re a Skirata,” Fett said, studying Ordo. The hostility in his eyes hadn't lessened. “I thought you’d died off, by now.” He didn’t lower his weapon.

Ordo inclined his head, ignoring the insult. “I am,” he said. “I'm Ordo." He didn't bother with his clan name, since Fett knew it already.

Fett’s lip curled. “A Null.”

Ordo waved a hand. The motion made Fett twitch, his fingers curling more tightly around his staff. One end of the staff was shaped like a club and the other ended in a fearsome spike.

“None of that matters any more,” Ordo said. Null, ARC, commando, pilot; the war was over. The war had been over.

Fett snorted. “It always matters,” he said. “What do you want, Skirata? The noise in the desert is your doing, I assume.”

“It is,” Ordo said. When Fett’s jaw tightened, Ordo added, in a tone he’d perfected around the dinner table in the karyai of Kyrmorut instead of on the battlefield. “No one’s going to get hurt. It’s a distraction, nothing more. You have my word.” He'd made Prudii and Jaing swear not to kill anyone. Somehow Mandalore had begun to revive itself without any blood feuds. Clan Skirata didn't need to start the first one.

“A distraction,” Fett rumbled. He was shorter than Ordo’d expected him to be. All of Ordo’s brothers were precisely six feet tall, grown by Kaminoan hands and Kaminoan nutrient bars, but Fett was several inches smaller.

Not enough food to go around as a boy, Ordo thought. Like Kal’buir.

Another sensation itched underneath Ordo’s armor, prickling like the first, like the sensation that had driven Ordo out of his comfortable home, away from his family. Ordo knew that it was guilt.

Fett looked strong, though. He was solid and his stance was rooted, feet spread apart like the base of a mountain.

“If you’re here to speak with the mand’alor, he’s not here,” Fett growled. “He’s out dealing with your distraction. He takes Mandalorians at the High House. No Mandalorians come here."

That was a blatant lie. Ordo chose to ignore it.

“I know where he is,” Ordo said. That had been the point. Ordo had no business with Din Djarin, the Mandalore; his business was with Fett alone. “I’m not here for him.”

Fett narrowed his eyes. Ordo kept ten or twelve feet between them, ready to move if Fett moved first. “You have no business with me either,” he said.

“I do,” Ordo disagreed. Fett’s face was set into a hard plane of dislike. Distrust.

“You don’t,” Fett said, his voice a furious rumble. “We’ve never had business between us.”

Ordo heard the unspoken accusation. You never wanted anything to do with me, Fett was saying. And I want kark-all to do with you.

Ordo hadn’t climbed three hundred feet of tower to be dismissed so easily, though. He shrugged. “We’re kin,” he said.

“We are not.”

“Allies, the,” Ordo said. That drew another snort from Fett. “You are the mand’alor’s ally, aren’t you?” Ordo said. “My clan has no fight to pick with him.”

“Just me, then,” Fett said.

Ordo fell silent again, studying Fett intently. Fett was ready for a fight. His face was perfectly still, smooth as granite.

“Just you,” Ordo finally agreed. “Though I didn’t come here to fight.”

“What did you come here for, then?” Fett demanded, every bit as impatient as the Prime. As the Nulls, who’d had too much of him. “Think quickly, Skirata, before I decide to put this – ” he broke off to lift his staff higher, so that Ordo could see its wicked spike “ – to good use.”

Ordo sighed. To the point, then.

“Clan Skirata has – concerns,” he said. “We thought we’d offer our aid to a brother, if he needed it. Standing in the middle of joha’kaan’s a dangerous place for any Mandalorian. For a Mandalorian alone.”

“You’re – concerned,” Fett said flatly. He raised his staff like he was thinking about lobbing it at Ordo’s head.

Mereel should be the one doing this, Ordo thought. He’s better at diplomacy than me.

Wary, Ordo nodded.

“About me,” Fett clarified. When he said it, it did sound absurd. Fett had never been treated as a clone, not on Kamino. He’d grown up naturally. Hadn’t been flash-trained or poked and prodded by the Kaminoans. Hadn’t spilled blood in the Clone Wars. Fett was no more Ordo’s brother than the mand’alor was.

But he was alone, said a voice in Ordo’s head that sounded like his father. You were safe on Mandalore, surrounded by your clan, and Boba Fett was alone for thirty years.

Guilt sharpened.

“...Yeah,” Ordo said. He didn’t know how to explain it to Fett, not properly. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. Discomfort was a novel feeling. Ordo didn’t much care for it.

“Why,” said Fett, in a tone that suggested to Ordo that Ordo ought to have either a satisfactory answer or an exit plan to get away from that staff.

Ordo looked at the man who could have been his brother and said nothing for a moment. Boba Fett and Ordo Skirata weren’t much alike. They shared a genetic code and little else. Not a life, not a war, not even a face, really, beyond the shape of Fett’s nose, the line of Ordo’s jaw. If Ordo spoke, he wasn’t sure that he’d be understood.

So Ordo did what Kal’buir would have done, and told the truth.

“None of us were made to be alone,” Ordo said. “Not even you.”

Fett’s expression didn’t change. “That didn’t seem to concern you thirty years ago,” he observed, still in that same flat, disinterested voice. “And it shouldn’t concern you now.”

“Maybe not,” Ordo agreed. Fett was hardly a lost little clone these days, barely more than a tubie, cheeks round with baby fat. He’d survived, same as the rest of them. Thrived, even; none of Ordo’s brothers could call themselves kings. “But still. We thought we’d check, when we heard that Death Watch was involved.” There were plenty among the mando’ade who would happily kill Fett to avenge kin slain by Jaster Mereel or Jango Fett. And now that the mand’alor was living here on Tatooine, those old kyr’stad warriors might be tempted to seize the opportunity and kill Fett while the mand’alor’s back was turned.

While the mand’alor is elsewhere, Ordo thought. Drawn away by another enemy.

“There is no Death Watch,” said Fett, and for the first time since Ordo’d heaved himself up over the lip of Fett’s window, Fett’s hard stone expression eased. It didn’t soften, because bedrock, choruk be te vheh, couldn’t soften, had no softness in its nature, but now instead of looking at a sheer cliff Ordo was looking at enough of a slope to stand on.

Or I’m the one who’s getting soft, he thought wryly. Boba Fett might be the stone of the earth, but Ordo had always been something else.

“Not here, anyway,” Fett said.

“No?” Ordo said. He hadn’t apologized. Fett wouldn’t want him to, Ordo didn’t think. Fett hadn’t been Ordo’s responsibility, and even if Ordo – or, more likely, Kal’buir, who had never managed to walk away from a child who had needed his help or his care – had thought to find Fett in those first chaotic days of the war, Fett wouldn’t have stayed with the Nulls. He had too much of the Prime in him, and not enough of Kal’buir. “Must’ve got some bad intel, then, ‘cause I could’ve sworn that that mand’alor of yours was Death Watch.”

“He quit,” said Fett, his tone going flat and dangerous again.

Ordo raised his hands, palms up and empty, in a sign of peace. “Alright,” he said. “And the others? Bo-Katan Kryze and her verde, the Owls, the Saxons?”

Fett shrugged. “I don’t have much to do with them,” he said. “I’m in the business of making credits, Skirata, not ruling Mandalore.”

Ordo’s intelligence came from Jaing, who’d gotten it from his youngest girl, who had an in with one of the Saxon boys and another with an annoyingly cheerful and persistent shabuir who worked underneath old Fenn Rau. Ordo trusted Jaing’s daughter more than he trusted Boba Fett. If the new mand’alor had once been Death Watch –

Well. None of that was Ordo’s business. He’d followed the old ghost of Kal’buir and come to check on his wayward brother, because Kal would have wanted to care about what happened to Boba Fett and in his advancing age Ordo found it hard to shut that old ghost out.

Weakness, Ordo thought, in a voice that sounded cold and clipped and Kaminoan.

All men are weak, Ord’ika, said a different voice. Just don’t let it kill you.

So. Fett was fine. He was living with – married to, if the jor’ika around the more Mandalorian parts of the galaxy was right – this new mand’alor, and apparently had let go of his grudges enough that he could tolerate former Death Watch assassins hanging around.

Maybe he doesn’t have too much of the Prime after all, thought Ordo. He made an interested noise. “Not in the business of ruling Mandalore?” Ordo said. He hesitated for only a bare second, aware that what he said next could get him punched in the nose by a Fett clone, who was genetically predisposed to punch rather hard, but decided that he’d rather take the risk and confirm Jaing’s intel, since it seemed that Mandalore was rising again, and it paid to keep an eye on growing power. “But here I thought that Mandalore the True spent most of his nights here in your bed,” said Ordo.

His gut instinct had been right. Fett did punch him, hard and fast, square in Ordo’s nose.

Ordo rolled with the blow and only staggered a little. The bright metal taste of blood filled his mouth.

“Don’t call him that,” said Fett. His hand was still curled into a fist but he didn’t press his advantage and swing on Ordo again.

He is one of the brothers, Ordo thought, a kernel of something that might have been affection – and what Ordo was going to pretend was just grudging respect – taking root beneath his armor.

“He’s hoping it doesn’t stick,” said Fett. He finally set his staff aside, propping it up on the work table. Fett was still wary, was still watching Ordo with a fierce expression on his face, but he had put down his weapon. For a Mandalorian, that was a sign that a verd was open to negotiation. That a verd mmight listen.

Ordo hadn't been a soldier in a very long time but he remembered how to talk like one. How to talk to one.

Fett was angry. Fett wanted to fight. Ordo wasn't angry.

“What’s he like, then?” Ordo said, standing back up straight. He set his nose with a practiced twist and ignored the blood in his mouth. Spitting on Tatooine was impolite, he’d heard. “We’ve heard ‘Mandalore the Just’ and ‘Mandalore the Fair,’ too, though we couldn’t tell if that was referring to his politics or to his face.”

Ordo had seen this new mand’alor on Krownest. Everyone had. Ordo was forty-six years old, physically closer to seventy, and he was a father and a grandfather and a happily married man.

But, he thought, amused, as Fett’s hand curled into a fist and a very Prime light glittered in his face, I do have eyes.

Fortunately, Fett managed to restrain the impulse to hit Ordo again, which was probably for the best. Ordo could let him have the one hit, but allowing two offended Ordo’s pride. If he and Fett were to be allies – and Ordo suspected that they were allies, or that they would be allies soon, because Ordo had enough of Kal Skirata in him to know that once he claimed a clone a kin, Ordo would not – could not – change his mind.

Daro's a good place for a morut, he thought. But the clan's big enough now that it might be time for the young to set off on their own. To build a new morut.

Tatooine was a large planet. There were plenty of places for a resourceful band of warriors to scratch out a good living.

“Ordo,” Fett said, after thinking for a moment. “Get out of my house.”

#ast asks #ast 'verse pov tag #i will be putting this up on ao3 this week because i DO have notes and thoughts #'tatug'ad' is 'clone'#okay fair warning i didn't revise this one very thoroughly so it's kind of disjointed and could use some polish #but i'm tired.

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