#jaelle writes

[anjaelle]

Hii I’m in loveeee with your writing I was wondering if you could write a Dave Lizewski x bimbo reader fic?

Oooh this sounds fun. I had to ruminate on this a bit, but I think I got it.

Pairing: College!Dave Lizewski x Bimbo!Reader

Rating: She's tame

Word Count: 1.3K

--

He was staring again. Every time you turned to look at him, he would quickly avert his eyes to the front of the room. In confusion, you turned to look behind you, only to see the blank wall of the classroom. You looked back at him and found him staring straight ahead like he'd been caught doing something bad.

You pulled your phone out of your bag and opened the front facing camera to check to see if you forgot to properly blend your makeup again. Or maybe you had crumbs on your face.

It didn't look like you had anything on your face. Though you did think you could use a re-up on gloss, and maybe a touch-up on your brows. You accidentally left your makeup bag in your dorm, and you kept losing all of your backup purse makeup, so all you had was a lip balm and school stuff. You supposed that you could use this as an excuse to do a quick drugstore run across the street to pick up another backup makeup kit. But you also felt like you'd be missing out on the sushi buffet in the dining hall if you got there too late. You hadn't had sushi in a long time, it would've been a shame to miss it. Then again you could always order it from that one spot you went to with that one guy. What was his name again? Something with a "F"--

"Hello?" The professor said, addressing you and pulling you out of your thoughts. You raised your brows in surprise, and smiled sweetly.

"Hi!"

Your professor tapped her chin with a beautifully manicured nail and looked you over with a funny look on her face. "Your presentation topic for next week?"

"Oh!" You said, looking down at your notes. "Well, I might talk a little about how hard influencing is and how it's actually harder than a 9-5 job. I'm still deciding. What do you think, professor?"

There were a few whispers in the class as she thought hard on the question. At least that's what you thought she was doing.

"Why don't you workshop that and get back to me tomorrow?" She finally said, turning away from you and moving onto another classmate.

You pouted at yet another presentation subject being shot down and made a note in the margins of your notebook to do just that. You hated going to her office hours, because you felt like you could never really do anything right.

When class let out, you pulled your phone out to text your friends about your change of plans tomorrow, when you felt a gentle touch on your elbow and turned to find Lizewski. Knowing that he was quiet and always a little bit stuttery, you smiled politely and gave him your full attention.

"Hi, how are you?"

"H-Hey," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Uh...I saw that you've been having a bit of a hard time with our media class."

A few people passed by the two of you in the hallway and greeted you but shot a curious look his way.

"It's so bad isn't it?" You frowned, crossing your arms in front of your chest, "I'm literally so great at most Social Media outlets, I don't understand why this is so hard. I mean...it's all the same shit."

He nodded, wide eyed and eager as always, "You're so right."

"And I'm trying really hard, but I just can't get it."

"I can help!" He blurted out. "Only if you want. I mean, you probably don't need my help. But I'd be happy to, if you want."

"You'd help me?" You asked, genuinely touched. "I don't know if I can pay you much, but how much do you want?"

"You don't have to pay me, come on." He dropped his eyes to his sneakers and shifted his weight on his feet, "We've known each other since middle school."

This time your eyes widened in surprise, "We have?"

This time it was his turn to look at you in surprise and confusion, "You went to my Bar Mitzvah."

"I did?" Then you thought about it, "I only remember going to one, and it was this boy named David."

He let out a short laugh and nodded, "Yes, that was me."

"David?! But everyone calls you Lizewski! That's your last name?" He nodded again and you gasped. Your whole world turned upside down. Without thinking you pulled him into a tight hug, "It's so nice to see you again, David! I thought you moved away in high school!"

"No," he said against your shoulder, "I just grew my hair out. And got taller. And you can call me Dave, or David, or Lisewski. Whatever you want."

You pulled away from the hug with a huge grin, and you reached out to readjust his glasses which sat crookedly on his face. Then you looked him over, trying to see the skinny thirteen year old you remembered in the grown man in front of you. You could almost see it. If he cut his hair shorter, and lost about a foot of height, he'd totally look the same. You grasped his shoulders in appreciation.

"Well this is wonderful! I've never had a friend for longer than 3 years before!"

As you walked side by side across campus, you could feel people staring like you had three heads. After the fourth set of eyes on you, you nudged Dave with your elbow.

"Do I have something on my face?" You tilted your head from side to side so he could examine you properly, and he shook his head.

"No, why?"

"People keep staring at me." You frowned, "It's kind of weird."

Dave said nothing at first, but looked around to see the evidence of your suspicion and sighed. "I think it's because you're hanging out with me."

You snorted, "That can't be it. That's so silly."

He kicked a small rock down the footpath and hummed in disagreement, "Is it? I mean...you're you. I'm me. We don't really hang out. I think people are used to seeing you with guys from...Sigma Alpha Epsilon"

You still didn't get it, and you crinkled your nose in disgust at the mention of the name.

"I don't talk to them. They're losers," you shuddered again, "They all have a weird obsession with skulls too. Have you ever seen those skulls with the blue stripe down the middle? They all have them on their trucks. It's so weird."

You watched him raise a single brow as he kicked the rock further down the path, "Are you talking about The Punisher's symbol?"

Before you could ask, he showed you a picture on his phone and you nodded.

"Yeah that's it! What's The Punisher? Is that, like, a band?"

He chuckled, "It's a comic book character and his symbol gets misused a lot. He's a vigilante."

You frowned, thinking of why someone would choose to do something like that. That seemed kind of mean.

"Well can you really see me hanging out with a bunch of guys who like vigilantes?"

For some reason, Dave's step seemed to falter, and he peered at you curiously, "Oh. Are you--do you think vigilantes are bad?"

There was a hint of poorly disguised panic in his voice.

You were confused about why he was confused. The answer was obvious.

"Vigils are a good thing," you said, matter-of-factly. You were surprised that you had to break this down to someone as smart as him. "Sometimes people have vigils for their dead grandmas and their pets, and stuff. Someone who's anti-vigils is obviously not a good person."

Dave gave you a long, strange look and laughed. Like, actually laughed. You didn't understand what was so funny about being pro-vigils. You felt like that wasn't exactly a controversial opinion. Were you on the wrong side of history this whole time? Were vigils actually bad?

"Are they bad for the environment or something? Like, the candles?" You squinted at him. He rushed to ease your worries with an extended hand.

"No! No, it's--vigilantes aren't people who are anti-vigils. They beat up bad people."

Oh.

"What a weird name to have for that," You admitted rolling the word over in your brain. Then you brightened at the memory of something, "Hey there was a guy back home that was like that! Kick-Ass! Do you remember him?"

He said nothing for a moment, but shrugged in response.

"Yeah, kinda."

"All the girls in our grade were obsessed with him," you continued, fishing through your bag for your dorm key. "At first, we thought it was that one weird guy who used to try and sell us coke from the trunk of his car down the street from our school. But one girl said that he saved her dad from getting jumped, and he was apparently, like, young. At least college aged."

"Ha," Dave simply said, "Maybe. I kind of remember people thinking it was someone from our school, though. Someone most people wouldn't even really expect, because it'd be super hard to keep a low profile. Someone who's probably super strong and really cool, even though most people don't know it."

You suddenly giggled, "What if it was that guy Todd Haynes?"

Dave stumbled over his own feet and shot his hand out to steady himself.

"You know who Todd Haynes is?"

"Yeah, I know him. He was in my gym class!"

"He's my best friend, I've known him my whole life. I'm--shocked that you know him." You brightened at the new information.

"I didn't know Todd had friends! You sure are full of surprises today." He stared at you again. For a super long time. You weren't sure what was going on in his brain. You touched your cheek, "Again with the staring. I think you're lying. I definitely have something on my face."

#dave lizewski #dave lizewski x reader #aaron taylor johnson x reader #aaron taylor johnson #jaelle writes

[nouklea]

Fic Tag Game!

I was tagged by @beri-allen, @writerrose1998, @cosmic-lullaby and @wileyonce. Thanks! <3

20 questions below the cut:

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

16

2. What’s your AO3 word count?

136,228

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Wednesday for now. I used to write for StarWars (see question 12) but no traces remains from that era.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Woe of Wrath

I'm on my Way

Variations on a Main Theme - 1

A Second Chance for a First Impression

Five Minutes Earlier

5. Do you respond to comments?

As much as possible. Usually I respond to every comment, even if it's just to say a quick Thank You. The only fic on which I haven't done that is Woe of Wrath, if fell into limbo and I have a hard time focusing on it right now. And I feel kind of weird to answer comments after several months of silence, but the more I wait the weirder it gets...

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Doomed is a Dead Dove Do Not Eat fic. The entire text is dark, including the ending.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I will go with Double-Date With Dad. Farewell Xavier Thorpe ends on a really good note too (if you are not a fan of Xavier).

8. Do you get hate on fics?

It never happened. Fingers crossed.

9. Do you write smut? What kind?

I try. I find it difficult for two reasons. First, it's tough to avoid clichés. When you read smut, you end up noticing some general patterns, and I do my best to stay away from those. Second, I'm not a fan of some popular kinks, for instance I can't stand the expression "good girl", and therefore I'm not interested in writing it, even if I keep reading authors that use them. Some people probably think my smut fics are boring, too soft, too ordinary. But I don't care (yeah, I do, but shh).

10. Do you write cross-overs?

No. And I have a really hard time reading cross-overs too. And I hate cross-overs in tv shows. Complete respect to authors, however. It's just not my thing.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. I guess I could translate my own fics in French since it's my native language, but for now I don't see any reason to do so.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, I did. It was a weird kind of toxic partnership. The other person was responsible for writing the general plot (because my ideas weren't good enough), and I had to turn every page he wrote into a three-pages long section, adding descriptions and filling the blanks. And correct the spelling and grammar, and add better vocabulary...

13. What WIP would you like to finish but doubt you ever will?

I hope I will finish every WIP I currently have, even if they tend to pile up (WIP bunnies...). My biggest challenge is to go back to Woe of Wrath. It is my first fic, it is a multi-chapter one, and I started to write it just to let the steam out after a twenty-years-long writing hiatus, so the outline was not super clear, there are many plot holes I try to fix, the sentences and vocabulary are bad... I know where I want to take the story and how it ends, but it's hard not to want to start over.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

For fanfics I'll say Weyler because it's the only thing I've ever written. Now besides that... For those who read Guy Gavriel Kay, I'm forever bound to the Diarmuid/Sharra ship, followed by Paul/Jaelle. Quite fond of the Clary/Jace ship in The Mortal Instruments (The books! Don't talk to me about the movie or the tv show!)

15. What are your writing strengths?

No damn idea. I've been asking myself the same question since I was thirteen.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

Probably not being able to answer question 15. Imposter syndrome.

17. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

In French it's not a problem, of course. I've done it in Impulsion. I have studied Latin for two years in highschool so I felt comfortable enough to translate a few sentences in Woe of Wrath. For other languages, I would only do so if I can find a beta reader fluent in this specific language to correct the grammar. I cringe everytime I read English fics with badly written French dialogs, it makes me loose the focus on the story (Same for tv shows, by the way. Come on, you have 2 millions $ to produce an episode and you can't find someone to double-check your French sentence?). It's really hard for me not to comment with a correction (AO3 etiquette: do not provide corrections unless the author specifically asked for it). I don't want to inflict that on my readers by butchering their native language.

18. First fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars. It was a long time ago (in a galaxy far far away), when there were only three movies and a few books (Timothy Zahn forever!). And for those who wonder how old I am, I used to write with WordPerfect, DOS version (it was the pre-Windows era). It had a blue background (terrible for the eyes) and some keycodes you had to use to change the font to bold or italics. Since you can't visualize anything in DOS (it's not a wysiwyg), it used colors, so you had to remember what it meant (yellow letters meant italics...). And I used to save those texts on a floppy my mom took to her office to print.

19. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

It's not a popular one, but I really like Monologue for a Hyde. I like the tone. Pretty happy with Fuck Me Once Shame on You, Fuck Me Twice Shame on Me, too.

20. What fic would you want to rewrite one day?

Woe of Wrath without a doubt. With a proper plan, and a lot of plot holes avoided (that damn cellphone...)

I will tag the Death Metal and Glitter Club members whose Tumblr ids I know, aka @anotherbluesunday, @tastethesetears, @darling-gemini, @darlingfuego,

As well as @broken-everlark, @persephoneed, @bithablu, @allergictocolor and @insomniac1994.

#tag game

[lunassentials]

Hwarang updates!

So I lost all my previous work and added extensions to the fics that were incomplete. Which includes the next part to Identities, Perfect and literally the whole plan I'd made for Fluttering's. {It was practically finished!}

GIF by heavensenttrunks

I don't really know what to say. I'm disappointed because even though it's been ages and most readers probably gave up expecting anything, I still was gonna finish those and now the time has come and I just realised they were in my old wattpad account that is officially dead. The reality check I had when I realised a lot of my old works are gone was...

GIF by jaell-o

But I guess maybe it's a good thing cuz I'm rewatching Hwarang again and want to write for it... so maybe I'll get fresh ideas. It's just I was really proud of my old writing and I'm not sure my new writing style will be up to the same standard. [I did this Enhypen AU... but like?? IDK !!!]

Anyways are people still up for it? Also, I'm thinking writing for Hansung, because I always had a good story for him that I fleshed out but never wrote.

GIF by becauseweareteenways

What do you think?

[packedwithpackards]

The first in a line of Packards: the story of Elizabeth

Building off the last post in this blog, where I pledged to write about more female ancestors, countering past gender imbalances, I'd like to focus on Elizabeth, the wife of Samuel Packard, who came over with a child, likely Mary, in 1638 from Hingham, a town in Norfolk County, England, to Hingham, a settlement in Plymouth County, Massachusetts. Many aspects of her life are an utter mystery. Her surname, long speculated to be Stream, is unknown, and is often given second billing, when it comes to efforts by Packard descendants to remember the past, elevating Samuel Packard above her, even by those than communicated with my grandfather, Bob Mills, or those that communicated with me in the past. The same is the case in contemporary records during the time her husband, Samuel, was alive, already implying was a second-class citizen. But, who was she, and why does she matter?

As I've written in the past, Elizabeth seems to have met Samuel when he moved to Norfolk County, which was north of Suffolk County, where he was born, reportedly in the Red House Farm. I am, to be clear, indirectly descended from both people. Apart from that, she had, at least nine children with Samuel, along with five grandchildren. [1] I tied to break this down into a listing so its much easier for you (and me) to understand those mentioned in Samuel's will:

Elizabeth X, wife of Samuel

Samuel, son of Samuel and Elizabeth, eldest son

Zaccheus, son of Samuel and Elizabeth

John, son of Samuel and Elizabeth

Nathaniel, son of Samuel and Elizabeth

Mary, daughter of Samuel and Elizabeth, wife of Richard Phillips

Hannah, daughter of Samuel and Elizabeth, wife of Thomas Randall

Jaell, daughter of Samuel and Elizabeth, wife of John Smith

Deborah, daughter of Samuel and Elizabeth, wife of Thomas Washburn

Grandchild Israel Augur, son of ???

Grandchild Caleb Philips, son of Richard? Phillips

Grandchild Israel Packard, son of Zaccheus

Grandchild Samuel Packard, son of Samuel

Grandchild Daniel Packard, son of Samuel

In his will on October 29, 1684, Elizabeth received some money from her husband and much, much more. This included gobs and jobs of land, including:

his farm in the town of Bridgewater (36 acres), along with lands and meadows connected to the farm

share of meadow called Bullshole for life

all his goods and cattle

40 pounds for life

20 acres of land lying in Bridgewater between lands owned by James Keith and Joseph Hayward near Satuckett Pond

all money and chattle shall be divided equally among his children and grandchildren after she dies

a feather bed, which shall be given to his grandchild Deliverance Augur after her death

one of the joint executors of his estate along with her son Samuel

That's a sizable amount!

After Samuel died, she married a man, likely in late 1684 or perhaps in early 1685, by the name of John Washburn, a long-time Bridgewater resident. He would die sometime after October 30, 1686, outlining the following in his will [2]:

to my Wife Elizabeth Washbourne one Bed one Boulster one Pillow two pair of sheets one Blanket one Coverlet two chests Six bushels of Indian Corne one bushell of Barley. ffarther with Respect to money which was my wives part whereof I have already laid out for her we are agreed that I should Returne to her two pounds and ten shillings which I have already done.

Of course, she is not mentioned at all in his inventory. [3]

Over ten years after Samuel's death, on October 27, 1694, Elizabeth sold land given to her by Samuel: a 20-acre tract called “Satuckett Pond” or “Sehucket Pond," selling the  the land to “an Indian” living in Bridgewater named Sam James for five pounds. [4] This agreement would be signed by Samuel’s son of the same name, Samuel Packard, Jr., along with two others, while identifying her as "Elizabeth Washburn Widow of the Town of Bridgewater":

Most importantly, in this agreement she explicitly noted herself as married to Samuel, calling him her "first husband":

"...by these presents convent with the said Sam James his heirs & assigners I...at the lime of making over and passing away said Land unto the said Sam James stood truley & lawfully peired and processed with the same & every part and parcel thereof of a good lure, lawfully & absolute Estate of Inheritance, by virtual of my first Husband, vis: Samuel Packard his will, and therefor, I have full power to Bargain, Sell, Grant, alienate, and pass away the piece onto said Sam James.

It goes on from there in legalese, basically saying she has the right to give Sam James the land. This transcription may not be completely correct, so I'd recommend you read the full page below, as I could have made errors:

Many years later, in April 1702, Elizabeth, still a “widow,” would sign a document about John Washburn’s heirs, receiving some rights. I came to the conclusion this is her as she is called "Elizabeth Solo" (widow):

"Massachusetts Land Records, 1620-1986," images, FamilySearch, Bristol, Deeds 1699-1709 vol 3-5, image 304 of 806, page 83, county courthouses and offices, Massachusetts.

That is the last record we have of her. What I have posed here goes far beyond what I wrote in the past. Further recommendations for how I can find more about Elizabeth are appreciated, as I'm planning to focus on later Packard ancestors in the future.

Notes

[1] Last Will and Testament of Samuell Packer, Oct. 29, 1684, Plymouth Colony Records, Wills Vol. 3, Part 2, Plymouth Registry of Deeds, Massachusetts, Plymouth County, Probate Records, Plymouth, p. 96-98, images 585-586 of 616.

[2] "Massachusetts, Plymouth County, Probate Records, 1633-1967," images, FamilySearch, Probate records 1686-1702 and 1849-1867 vol 1-1F, image 49 of 490, pages 84-85; State Archives, Boston.

[3] "Massachusetts, Plymouth County, Probate Records, 1633-1967," images, FamilySearch, Probate records 1686-1702 and 1849-1867 vol 1-1F, image 50 of 490, pages 86; State Archives, Boston.

[4] "Massachusetts Land Records, 1620-1986," images, FamilySearch, Plymouth, Deeds 1712-1714 vol 10, images 183-184 of 651, page 333, 334-5; county courthouses and offices, Massachusetts.

Note: This was originally posted on Dec. 26, 2019 on the main Packed with Packards WordPress blog (it can also be found on the Wayback Machine here). My research is still ongoing, so some conclusions in this piece may change in the future.

© 2019-2022 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

#packards #genealogy #family history #genealogy research #ancestry #lineage #17th century #18th century #norfolk county #wills #probate #england #bridgewater #indigenous people #hingham #massachusetts #plymouth colony

[karaboutmyart]

💔 bring on the angst!

/// awww yeAahhh, anGst-- I decided to write boromir's death (movie version). I've never written anything lord of the rings before, not one single fic or oneshot or anything. so this is my first!! ///

---

The forest was calm after the fight.

But their hearts were filled with a sorrow. Aragorn bounded over to the tree, ignoring the exhaustion in his limbs, the ache in his arms. He almost collapsed when he came to Boromir's side, pressing his hands close to the other's sides. His crystalline blue orbs stared into the other's, wide but somehow solemn.

"Frodo... where is Frodo?" Boromir said, breath heavy. His face was paling, fast, the blood dark along his pallor.

"Save your strength," said Aragorn, a murmur in the light of the trees, and he pressed his hand against his shoulder, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Too fast. It was all coming too fast. "I let Frodo go."

The other seemed relieved for a split second, but the pain and discomfort lingered, his almond eyes dulling. "Then you did what I could not... Aragorn... I tried to take the ring from him..." his breaths were rattled, and he seemed weak. Aragorn continued to press his hand to his wound, trying to stop the blood. Live, he prayed. Please. Please.

"The ring is far beyond our reach now," he murmured still.

"Forgive me. I did not see... I... I failed you all--" Boromir said, and his gaze was fixed upon Aragorn's.

"No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You... kept your honor..." Aragorn was panicking, but his face did not show it. He started to press harder into the wound, searching for the binds in his satchels. But Boromir reached out, grabbing his arm tightly.

"Leave it! Leave it... it is over, Aragorn. The world of men will fall--" his voice was brittle, shaking violently along with his breath, "Oh, Aragorn... they will fall, along with my city, into the shadow of darkness..."

"No, Boromir," Aragorn said, firmly, but now his own voice was shaking, "I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail." He blinked, and his own breath was starting to hitch.

"Our people... our people..." Boromir whispered this, his voice growing more and more distant. And his breath continued to shake, growing heavier and heavier as he fought to stay alive. Aragorn did not realize he still had his hand against his wound until the other ever so carefully moved it away.

"I would have followed you, my brother... Aragorn... my captain... m...my king..." Boromir said this with a small smile, and his breath shook and shook. Until finally, his fingers twitched, as his gaze drew unfocused and towards the canopies of leaves hanging overhead. And his breath grew still. And his eyes were lifeless.

Aragorn shakily moved his hand to the other's face. "Be at peace, son of Gondor..." he whispered. And then a small sob escaped from his lips. He drew his head down to the other's, and planted a kiss there. He was shaking, weeping still. He never really cried like this before. But watching as his own kind, one of vulnerability yet compassion, one that had hope. So much hope.

He closed his eyes tightly. He will take that hope, and he will uphold it, he decided. For mankind. For Gondor.

For Boromir.

#my writing #writing #lotr #lord of the rings #lotr boromir #lotr aragorn #boromir #aragorn #aragorn son of arathorn #ask #writing game #angst #death #tw death #aragorn/boromir #jaell-o #hope you all like this #i tried my best

[melongumi]

i need to go to bed, but man. many emotions re: Tabris/Carver and Carver in Ferelden during the blight w/ no idea if his family is safe

#i should write fanfic about it but HA #ha ha #* looks at wips * #im so fucking sorry #maker take you #jaelle tabris

[frankie-catfish-morales]

I was tagged by the wonderful and lovely @mikesseleven <3

Pick 5 shows, then answer the following questions, don’t cheat. Tag 10 (or however many) people.

1. Game of Thrones

2. New Girl

3. Stranger Things

4. Tangled the Series

5. Once Upon A Time

1. Who is your favourite character in 2? Nick Miller, hands down

2. Who is your least favourite character in 1? I was not a fan of Catelyn tbh.

3. What is your favourite episode of 4? "Rapunzel and the Great Tree” Rapunzel sings a reverse incantation that turns her hair black and blows her eyes black. Makes everything around her die. Fucking AWESOME.

4. What is your favourite season of 5? Season 3. Seeing Emma being scared and hiding in what she was comfortable with, then eventually opening up, letting down her walls, and finding her home in her son, parents, and true love. It was the best season. I mean, Neverland was a superior arc.

5. Who is your favourite couple in 3? I was really excited about Lucas and Max but they kinda didn’t have much time this season. Right now it’s Mike and Eleven.

6. Who is your favourite couple in 2? Nick & Jess. They have probably the hottest first kiss I’ve ever seen.

7. What is your favourite episode of 1? The Dragon and the Wolf

8. What is your favourite episode of 5? 4.02 White Out. It just has the softest vulnerable Emma moments, and it begins her friendship with Elsa which I STAN.

9. What is your favourite season of 2? Season 2 was the best. So much sexual tension and the humor was on point!

10. How long have you watched 1? Goddd I can’t even remember. Too fucking long to have deserved that ending.

11. How did you become interested in 3? It was on my Netflix suggestions and I’m a hoe for horror.

12. Who is your favourite actor in 4? I think Zachary Levi takes the cake.

13. Which do you prefer, 1, 2, or 5? Split between 1 and 5 because both Emma and Daenerys really impacted me and who I am as a woman.

14. Which show have you seen more episodes of, 1 or 3 ? I’ve seen all of all of them, but GOT has more episodes so lets go with that.

15. If you could be anyone from 4, who would you be? Rapunzel. Her optimism is something that I always look to when I’m feeling sad, angry, or negative (so, all the time), and I wish I was more like her.

16. Would a crossover between 3 and 4 work? Rapunzel could team up with Eleven and completely destroy that demogorgan I AM HERE FOR IT.

17. Pair two characters in 1 who would make an unlikely but strangely okay couple? Jaime and Sansa cause SNARK factor. If Sansa was aged up.

18. Overall, which show has the better storyline, 3 or 5? #3 for consistency. Unfortunately, OUAT suffered from some lackluster writing in the end.

19. Which has the better theme music, 2 or 4? I don’t think there is much music in New Girl, LOL. Definitely Tangled in any case.

I tag @a-faekindagirl @gleam-and-glo-w @fitzherbert-s @kelseyfitzherbert @mochacake2016 @tehgreeneyes @danerystarg @jaell-o @yocalio @high-seas-swan

#tag games #game of thrones #new girl #tangled the series #ouat #stranger things #rapunzel's tangled adventure

[elphaba-fang]

It's... A... New season for our heroes and pals!

No spoilers this time guys. Just feedback please.

~*~

Open your eyes...

Please...

Open them.

It's alright.

Eyes opening...

“Alright we've got... Silver! Silver eyes!” black hair. Shaved partly on one side. The shave just barely below the top of the ear. A few braids tied back. Jade eyes. Seen battle. Too many to want to count.

“Silver eyes? Not like the metal right?” laughter. Young man. Red hair. Unnatural. Crimson hair. Like blood. Handsome face. Little scruff. Piercing eyes. Beautiful. Blue. Scars that were fading. Very... handsome...

“Shut up!” the first woman laughed, ready to smack the man.

“Hey hey hey not the face!” he laughed.

“So, silver eyes huh? That's cool.” young woman, slightly see through. Ghost-like. Pale blue hair, skin and white eyes. Almost empty with a faint spark of life. Ice coated her. Small bits completely frozen.

Faces? Many faces watching over. Curiosity was ready to burst from this silver-eyed thing.

“They look confused.” red head.

“Understandable.” blue hair.

“Maybe we should explain?” black hair.

“Yeah let's do that. But... Who's turn?” red hair.

“Good question... Torisma?” black hair.

“Too violent.” red hair.

“Fair. Teak?” black hair.

“Maybe that's not wise... remember what happened last time?” red hair.

“Oh! Shoot you're correct. How about Nighthawk?” black hair. The ghostly one had drifted off.

“Shoot first ask questions later.” a new face chimed in, approaching. Brown hair. Long. Super long. Down to the knees long. Elegant, beautiful. Pointed ears. Oh an elf! Carrying a staff. Tanned skin. Magenta eyes. And a similar color on the tattoo on her face.

“You know I can hear you?” helmet. Muffled voice. Hiding something?"

“Shhhh!”

“Who's a favorite? Totoro?”

“Too young.”

“Shun?”

“Busy reading.”

“May?”

“Seriously...? She... She can't talk.”

“Yeah, shut up.”

“Kiba?”

“Ha! Hahahaha... Oh wait you're serious. Kiba will feed them to the jaggis.”

“Hani?”

“Too fragile. Seriously, breathe on her and she starts bleeding.”

“Wow... Uh... I'm down to two. One is-”

“Kinda grumpy-”

“Yeah and the other is-”

“Kinda stabby...”

“Rock-paper-scissor-lizard-Spock?”

“Oh you're on!”

They continue. Gentle tap while they're distracted. A whole mess of people.

“You the new girl?” silver hair. Pale blue eyes. Tanned skin. A few well placed scars. Lester armor. Rogue? Thief? Looking down slightly. Spikes. Lots of them. Jetting from the large belt and bursting from the gauntlet.

Slow nod.

“Come on. We'll show you around.” same one. Silver hair, blue eyes.

Pause.

“Any idea what you look like yet?”

Shakes head.

“No? Well, so far... You're a girl. Silver eyes. Name?”

Shrugs.

“Don't even have a name yet. Probably still thinking of one.”

Confused.

“Do you know what you sound like yet?”

Shakes head.

“It'll come soon, promise. Usually does that later, but it's nice being able to talk. Love interest?”

Nods excitedly.

“Nice! We got a nod!”

Looking around. Silver eyes shining. Many strangers all interacting in different ways. All getting along. Elves, dwarves, aliens, humans, merfolk, vampires, werewolves, demons, angels. So many things here. Not fighting or trying to hurt. Peaceful coexistence. Overhead, people on brooms or dragons, flying cars, or just flying!

“Hey new girl!”

“Over here!”

Running forward, almost getting stepped on by a dragon.

“Sorry miss! Hope I didn't hurt you.”

The dragon talks! It actually talks! From it's back, two young women.

“Pryo, she okay?” Auburn hair. No, sandy. Green eyes. Fair skin only barely lighter than the hair. Cute girl.

“Yeah! She seems fine!” the dragon spoke. He was a cream color. Lovely Amber eyes, like gemstones against the contrasting gray. Large horns resembling antlers, but almost made of coral?

“Then let's go!” another woman. Pale. Black hair with red tips and bangs.

The dragon makes his way farther down. There's so much here! Ships! Dragons! Unicorns! Planes! Everything here! It's overwhelming!

“Hey glad you finally made it, new girl. Do you want long or short hair?” elf stands there staring.

Shrugs.

“Well, whatever your preference, I hope you get it.”

Surprised.

“We don't always get what we want at first... But as we grow and develope we see why and we love who we are. Nesissa would never wish slavery upon another person. But she goes through it. And because of who she is now, her strong development? She wouldn't have herself any other way. More than anything, Hunter has to live with their pain of how many monsters they've murdered. Shot down with no remorse. But it makes them stronger. The desire to now protect is greater than any harm anyone would do.”

“Fang didn't want to die. Originally, they were going to stay dead. Fang knew, however, not only was sure created to defeat such evils, but she was content where she was. Happy. Nothing else urgent required care.”

“Tsume was dropped into a world where humans don't exist. Somehow, they didn't kill them.”

“There are many examples. But we may dislike it at first, hate resent, even regret our creation. But in the end, we love her. Not because we have to. But we want to. She cares about all of us.”

“Okay.”

“She spoke!”

“Sounds like European. Specified to... British? Yeah, British.”

“Tell us about yourself. Oh. Your hair is coming in now. Brown hair? No wait, it's changing! Silver hair too! Nice! Oh, eyes are changing!”

“Ammy will be happy. There's another White hair red eyes character.”

“So... I've got questions...” New girl. Longer hair. Messy? No straight. Curly? Messy again? Messy with some braids? What's with all the braids?

“Understandable... But first, tell us about yourself.”

“I... I don't remember...” Embarrassed.

“Did she finally...?”

“Looks like.”

The others nodded.

“Well then. Out of the hundreds of characters made, you are the first among us to have... amnesia.” Same black hair and frigid eyes. But they weren't cold feeling. No, warming. Like a mother's smile.

“How do I get it back...?”

“We gotta get you in your world. Ready?”

Nods.

Bright light. Eyes opening to the Grand city and looking over the rest of the world. People hustling and bustling. Unaware and confused. The poor young woman only wanted help. She stumbled into a stranger. Furious by her apparently careless nature.

“I'm sorry!” She frowns, avoiding being struck. She stumbled into someone bigger. Afraid, she ran. An angered man pursued her. She was terrified. He called her a thief and chased her some distance. She tumbled down the wall. Catching herself narrowly on a ledge. “Help! Somebody help!” The cries were heard, and people gathered. She was going to fall.

“Hold on! I'll catch you!” A strange boy shouted. After a countdown, her fingers released their grasp. She fell. Praying to the gods she would be caught. And she was. The young man who caught her smirked.

“H-hi...” She blushed looking at him.

“Hey. I'm Erik.”

“Jaelle.”

~*~

New. Debuting my newest character, Jaelle! She's based in the Dragon Quest universe, specifically in Dragon Quest XI. I absolutely adore Erik. This didn't fit all I wanted in it. Kinda peeved... It's all jumbled and messy. I hate that there's a limit. It bothers me. There's a line limit, a character limit. And I'm doing all this from my phone... It's frustrating because I have to re-edit everything I do just so it'll fit. It's really frustrating and constricting to everything I write because I do write a lot of dialogue and characters. It's hard. Do I just not have them talk?

[anjaelle]

hii, can you write a dave lisewski x reader where reader is new at school and he volunteers to give her a tour of the school. Dave thinks she is really pretty and wants to be her friend, he asks questions about her and finds out that she likes comics and superhero’s just like he does and he asks her to come to his house after school to watch a new marvel movie that just came out. she says yes and they watch the movie at his house. during the movie dave just can’t keep his eyes off of her and he’s so in love with her even though he just met her.The movie ends and he walks her home because it’s getting late and he doesn’t want her to possibly get into some kind of danger. when they make it to her house( he finds out that they live close to one another) she thanks him for being so kind to her and kisses him on the cheek. he blushes and wishes her a goodnight. from then on they become great friends and maybe even more. (SORRY THIS IS SO LONG, js wanted it to be detailed so it’s easier for you!!🤭)

@baddestdu0y3t

Pairing: Dave Lizewski x New Girl!Reader

Warnings: None. Except general teen awkwardness?

a/n: Ok so I'll be honest and say that I haven't written for highschool characters since I was a highschooler myself about 10-11 years ago. So I'm admittedly a bit rusty. I probably won't make this a regular thing, because I don't really think I'm good at it haha. And I changed some things around and cut some things out for brevity, but kept the important bits. It kind of feels like a coming-of-age romcom.

(gif source)

--x--

Dave would happily get stabbed and hit by a car twenty more times if it meant he wouldn't have to deal with the current situation he was in. He'd dripped oil from his bacon egg and cheese in his lap, and tried to clean the stain with soap and water, which created an almost bigger stain. The hand dryer in the mens room wasn't working, there were no paper towels, and he was running late to homeroom. Todd gave him a sympathetic pat on the back and offered the ever-helpful comment, "Don't freak. It'll dry eventually."

But it'd been a half hour, and it hadn't dried completely. A few people passed him with looks of disgust.

This day was already turning out to be shit, and it was only 9 AM. He shoved his head in his locker, wishing that a sinkhole would form in the middle of the school and swallow him whole. As the hallway cleared, he noticed you looking down at at a paper and distractedly walking in one direction before turning a corner and disappearing. You then turned back around and walked past him again in the other direction, with a furrowed brow and a pouting lower lip. When you turned to pass him a third time, he closed his locker and awkwardly leaned up against it.

"Hey! Are you lost?" He nearly shouted at you. You stopped short, startled out of whatever daze you were in, and looked at him as if you didn't even notice there was another person in the hall until now. Any plans he had to have a normal conversation left him immediately. He cut his eyes away from you. It was like staring into the sun.

"Hi." You re-adjusted your bag on your shoulder, "And yeah. This school is way bigger than my old one and I'm kinda turned around."

"Oh, yeah, totally, for sure. It's--yeah, it's big." He said awkwardly pulling at the straps of his backpack, "I mean, the school is big. The halls are big. It's a maze. Even I still get lost sometimes, and I've been here almost 4 years."

God, Dave, shut the fuck up.

You giggled at him and he felt his cheeks warm at the sound of it.

"Um, can you help me?" You asked, quirking your head to get a better look at him.

"Sure. Yeah, I can walk you to your next class."

You smiled at him and he smiled back, revealing the cutest dimples you'd ever seen.

"What about your class?"

He peeked at your schedule and his brows disappeared under the curls on his forehead, "We have the same homeroom. So we'll be going the same way."

He was very different from the boys you talked to at your previous school. You thought of what your old friends would say about him. You weren't super popular or anything, but you navigated most social spaces with relative ease. It also meant hiding a lot of yourself. Dave had a kind face and warm eyes that studied you with a sense of eager curiosity that flattered you. Incidentally, you were curious about him too.

When you introduced yourself to him and shook his hand, you noticed immediately how strong his grip was and his calloused palms. Most guys you knew with hands like those played contact sports. He didn't seem like the type, at first glance. He seemed to notice your surprise but didn't quite understand the reason behind it.

"Sorry if my hands are sweaty," he said, instinctively wiping them on his pants.

You rushed to ease his fears, "No they weren't! You're fine." And then, "Do you play sports?"

"Nope. I mean...sometimes I play Wii Tennis. I don't know if that counts though."

You giggled again, "I think that counts."

Interesting. Maybe he did woodworking or mechanic stuff like your dad. You made a mental note for later.

You both strolled down the hall in no real rush to make it to your destination as you talked. He was incredibly animated and spoke with his hands when he got into the groove of the conversation. And when you talked about your old school or your family, he actively listened and asked even more questions.

"You're really cool," he finally said, breathlessly. If you could visibly blush, you're sure you would've. You've been called a lot of things, but never "cool" with such earnestness. "I just wish I'd met you when I didn't have bacon stains on my pants."

He looked down at himself again and grimaced at his own misfortune. You could almost laugh at how resigned he was. Like this was just an everyday thing he had to deal with.

"You could just do what the girls do when we have stains on our pants," you suggested. He quirked a questioning brow and you motioned with your hands. "Tie your hoodie around your waist. It'll hide the stain pretty well, I think."

His eyes widened like you'd revealed the secrets of the universe to him, "I...didn't even think of that."

He immediately took his backpack off and dropped it to the ground to unzip his hoodie. When you noticed his tee shirt, you heard an eager gasp slip from you before you could really stop it. His shirt had the different sketched out iterations of Batman's costume designs over the years, which included a mix of his comic and movie suits.

"I just really like your shirt." You explained as he tied his sweater around his waist. "I was raised in a DC household. My dad has a big box of old school batman comics in our basement that I used to poke through when I was a kid."

His face lit up at your confession, "You like comic books?"

"I used to. I mostly just watch the movies now. The good ones, anyway." You said, shrugging. In truth, you hadn't picked a comic up since middle school. You missed reading them sometimes, but you never really had anyone to talk about them with. So you just stopped. You explained as much to him and he hummed in thought.

"Well, you can always talk about them with me. Do you like Marvel, too?"

You scrunched your nose up at him and he gasped.

"I'm sorry," you couldn't help but laugh at his dismayed expression, "I just think most Marvel movies are corny. And the comics can be a little soap opera-y to me. Maybe I'll give the comics another try, but I don't think I've seen any recent movies other than Black Panther and Thor Ragnarok."

When he thought about it, he couldn't really blame you for feeling that way, "If you had to choose, would you say that those were your favorites?"

"Nope," you admitted, "My favorite is Captain America: The Winter Soldier."

"And not Civil War? That one's my favorite."

You shook your head as you both approached the door to your homeroom, "I may have only seen it in parts. I don't really remember it."

He bounced on the balls of his feet nervously and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "Well if you wanted...we could watch it at my house next Saturday. Only if you want. My dad and my friend Todd will be there, so it won't be just us. But they won't be weird either. At least, I don't think so."

You smiled at him as he babbled on, only reaching out to lightly touch his arm. "Let me ask my mom. She might ask for your dad's number, if that's okay?"

A small smile graced his pretty face.

He nodded, "Totally."

Todd wasn't super happy with the idea of you joining their movie night. But Dave watched him warm up to you until you were both practically friends, too. He felt a twinge of jealousy at how quickly you two got along, but he summed that up to just how friendly and easy to talk to you were. He knew the movie front to back, so he couldn't help but watch you study the movie with deep interest to see how you reacted to his favorite parts. When all was said and done, the three of you sat in the living room discussing Civil War and if you were Team Cap or Team Stark. You all seemed to be in agreement that Tony was a war criminal who indoctrinated child soldiers. But you all were in disagreement about whether Tony deserved to have his ass kicked by two super soldiers.

"He literally didn't even know that he did anything wrong!" You argued to Todd, who rolled his eyes.

"You're only saying that about Bucky because you think he's hot."

"Maybe so," you admitted, "but my point still stands. He was brainwashed, he wasn't responsible."

"So you wouldn't be upset if I killed your parents, and Dave knew but hid it from you, and then beat you up when you found out?" The blond asked, popping a pretzel in his mouth, "I dunno. I'd be pretty upset."

"That's different, Dave would tell me." You responded with a coy wink at your new best friend.

Todd groaned, "You think he'd throw me under the bus for you?"

"I mean--" Dave cut in, pushing himself from the couch to stand to his feet and stretch, "--she is really pretty. And she smells nice. You're not as pretty and you just smell like Axe."

Todd gasped in mock hurt and you motioned to yourself as if to say "look at the material."

When 9:00 hit, you said goodbye to Dave's father who invited you and your family back for dinner, and hugged Todd goodbye.

"You're still wrong about Tony." He mumbled.

"You're in denial."

"You're In denial."

When you broke away to hug Dave he hesitated, "I was going to walk you home if that's okay with you. No pressure. I just...Uber is expensive on Saturday nights, and I know you don't live too far. But I don't want you to feel unsafe."

You noticed Todd shoot an odd glance at Dave before schooling his features. You made another mental note, but nodded.

"Sure, thanks."

You still weren't used to how long city blocks were. So even though you lived only a few blocks away, it felt like so much longer. Despite everything, you were surprised by how quiet this section of Manhattan was at night. Some people milled about, either going to or coming from someplace else. The air was brisk enough to add a jolt of energy to your system, but it still wasn't so cold that you felt any rush to get home.

"So what's up with the callouses?" You suddenly asked. Dave seemed confused by the question, so you grabbed his hand and held it up to him, then turned his hands over to show his reddened knuckles.

"Oh. I-I'm a...boxer. I box." He stammered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Only my dad and Todd don't know. So don't, like, bring it up around them. They'd freak out."

You hummed, "Okay."

He let out a sigh of relief. A sharp gust of wind from a passing wind tunnel chilled you to the bone, and you looped your arm through his.

"Oh!" You said, surprised.

"Are you cold?" He leaned in closer to you, "We can walk faster if you want."

"I just..my hands are a bit cold." That didn't explain the way you were wrapped around his arm like a boa constrictor. But he didn't seem to mind. He shifted his hand in his sweater pocket.

"There's some room."

You felt your stomach flutter when his hand brushed against yours in his sweater pocket. The flutter turned into a rapid thud when his fingers laced through yours. Despite how ice cold your hands were, he didn't pull away.

"Is that okay?" He asked, shyly, fully prepared to move his hand if you objected. You gave his fingers a small squeeze.

"It's great, actually."

You carried on the casual conversation for another few blocks before stopping at a newly renovated brownstone. He realized then that your family definitely had more money than his.

"Here we are."

You slipped your hand out of his grasp when you realized you still had it in his pocket.

"So...I'll see you monday?" He asked, fidgeting with a loose piece of string on his sleeve.

"Of course."

"Awesome."

"Yeah."

You looked him over one last time before you parted ways. He was your first real friend since you moved, but you still felt like there was so much about him that you didn't know. Not because he was particularly secretive, but because you felt like there was more to him than he let on. You unconsciously reached up and moved a curl away from his eyes. A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, in response.

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing," you said, "I just think you're really cool, Dave Lizewski."

His smile bloomed into a wide grin, exposing the deep dimples in his cheeks. "You're cool, too. Probably the coolest person I know, actually."

Your heart was thudding in your ears when you leaned up to press a gentle, lingering kiss to his cheek. Before you pulled away, you heard him gasp softly in surprise.

You suddenly felt your phone vibrate in your pocket and checked to see that it was your mom asking where you were.

You usually let your mom know ahead of time when you were on your way home, but you felt uncharacteristically out of sorts. You shot her a quick text letting her know you were outside.

"I hate to do this," you said, finally breaking him out of his stupor, "I really have to go now. Mom's asking questions. Text me when you get home, okay, Curly?"

You gently touched his arm and climbed the steps of your house to the front door. He gave you a weak thumbs up, but he still stared at you with a shocked, flushed face. "G-gotcha."

"And don't forget."

"I won't. I promise."

When you finally shut the door behind you, you peeked out of the small eyehole to watch as he touched his face in surprise and walked down the street in the wrong direction.

#jaelle writes #aaron taylor johnson x black!reader #dave lizewski #dave lizewski x reader #atj x reader #aaron taylor johnson x reader

[eldriitchmurmurs]

at the annual Jays OCs And Adopted Characters Seder jaelle is the good child... ceren is the wicked child

#im lov them both tho #jaelle is my Angry Good Daughter Who Does A Few Murders Sometimes But Is Still Good #jays bad writing tag

[24jnxh]

Life Story #330

Day 4: Life without father in life. Since young, I told myself I must be thankful for my parents, because it was them who adopted me, and accept me as their child even I’ve no blood related with them. Since young, I’m close to my dad, and I told myself, I need to be like him being selfless even in any circumstances I’m in, I need to love people around me, help them when they needed help even I’m in lack, this was the spirit that my dad given to me, and he have taught me in life. I’m not my parents’ child, but they did not treat me as an outsider, yet, they still love me as their child. When I was young, my life was so tough. I remembered when I was at the age of 5, my dad asked me a Mathematics Question, “What is 5+6=” and I could not tell him the right answer, therefore I got scolded and cane. That time, I felt so fearful, I could not sleep and force myself to remember each calculation and make sure I remember every answer of it. I waited for my dad to be back that night, and I told him the answer, but, he still shows me to unhappy face. That time, I told myself, “Joey, you are hopeless, just a simple 5+6, you cannot answer.” That moment, as I grew up, I often got caned, scolded and physically abuse by my dad, that I have fear towards him, and I did not dare to communicate with him, and not just that, I’m afraid to open my heart once again to receive love from anyone, because I’m afraid it will be a mentally abuse. All the while, I thought my mum loves me, and she dote on me more than anyone because all abuses my dad gives to me, she will be the one that ��protects me. One day, when I was at the age of 11, my mum caned me 3 strokes, and these 3 strokes stays at where it was, it never fades away. From that day, I could not sit properly as how people sit. That day, I realize in this world there is no true love, parents don’t truly love their child. I hated them from then onwards. My relationship with them was not as good as any other of my friends would see and think, because it was just acted out in front of them. Seeing my surrounding friends have good relationship with their parents, and I don’t, I feel they have a good family. Even in times of obstacles, they still love one another, but mine? When I was at the age of 16, something big happened and I could not forget about my dad’s reaction. That day, I texted Jaelle that my dad doesn’t understand how I feel but, yet he still scolded me. And, Jaelle replied “Do you live in his heart? How do you know he doesn’t love you? Likewise, he doesn’t live in your heart, so he does not know how much you love him. The both of you need communication.” After reached home, I straight went into my own room and locked myself in the room. That night, I’m going to my biological mum’s house, but I kept on delayed and they kept on calling, Zann and Jaelle they took turns to help me to speak to them. My mum called me, I don’t know how to talk to them, Jaelle helped me once again, and when I’m inside to tell the officer what happened, it was Jaelle and Zann attended to my parents. But, it took me awhile to go police station. This happened on a night where is just a day before cg meeting, that night I called Zann and she asked me to go over her place earlier and she wants to talk to me about this. I could not voice it out when I’m with her, and she called me go out eat dinner. That is when, I asked her for a paper and pen, after writing finished and she started reading, Roxanne reached. I was crying there while eating, Roxanne sat beside me and pat of me, the next moment was Zann brought me into the study room and I just sat at the safe box and cried there. So, back to when I reached home from police station, I heard my police is quarrelling in the room because of me. The next day, my parents did not go to work, and I just kept locking myself in the room. When only my biological mum, and my auntie came back, I open the door and walked to the kitchen and drink water, my auntie told me “你不要傻了.” That moment, I started to lock myself up. I stopped everyone to walk into my life, because that time the me, I could not accept what happened, and I could not take it what has happened. My mum and biological mum came into my room and asked if I want to eat, and all my respond to them was “I want to sleep.” That period of my life, I really want to die. Thinking in heart, why my parents have such a daughter like me? Slowly, I have walked out of this fear towards my cellgroup members. It took me 5 years, it is a long 5 years journey. Looking back, that journey of my fears, Zann and Jaelle was there to protect me. Each time when I feared, they grab onto my hand and tell me “No need to be fearful. I’m here protecting you.” Each word from them, I felt so secure, I felt peace and safe, just as if God is there to protect me. But, what happened after 5 years? My parent divorces. It is another hardship that I need to go through. This hardship I fall once, and fall deeper, and now it is even deeper because I cannot imagine my mum will tell me that she wants to revenge. I know that my dad outside has another woman, I just felt hurt, but I don’t hate him. When I know my dad might move over and stay with the woman, I felt hurt because it reminds me of how he hurt my mum and I, but I don’t hate him, just want to disown him. But, I realize I felt that hatred I have towards him. That I will unknowingly hold on to my fist and I will hurt myself to stop feeling that hatred and that pain, but it is a temporary feeling only. I will start to act that I’m fine, and push people away from me, say things that is hurtful and do things harshly, just because this season I cannot have anyone to walk with me anymore. This unknowingly issue, it is known want, but I choose not to face it. I rather hurt myself to temporary don’t feel that pain. Joey, you are truly hopeless and useless. Cannot even protect your mum. What can you do? Push people away, do things in an unexpected manner, just because don’t want anyone to worry and be hurt by you when you do anything foolish. What a crowd are you? Leave bah, leave all you want. Leave and die as you want, your hatred towards them is strong game now, but you keep on feeling you are fine, you are just idiot crowd don’t dare to face it! No use, no hope! In this season of mine, I’m not worrying about who I will become to in few month time, but I’m worrying about my surrounding friends and family. First, I’m worrying about my mum. The plan that she must revenge but then I could not do anything to help her and stop her from thinking about revenging. When she revenges, what if anything happens to her? I will lose a mother, and I don’t have a dad anymore, I cannot lose my mum. Second, I’m worrying about Holly. I cannot force you to open to me, because if you unwilling to do so, I no idea what I can do. I cannot always use that same method to make you share things, and I feel you should know that I truly care about you despite what I’m going through, I’m still WILLING to be here for you and listen to you, right? Third, I’m worrying about Francesca. Ever since she is in a relationship, she like cut relationship with me, text her and there is no reply. I’m really thinking is she doing well, and is she okay. Forth, I’m worrying about Jocelyn. Ever since what happened between us, this 14 years of friendship has shaken. But, I never regret bringing her to know Jesus, but she left church, left the cellgroup and backslided, and this is what I’m worrying and concerning about in life. Fifth, I’m worrying about one friend, and I don’t want to mention the name of this friend. Friend, I always treat you as my friend, but when times I does not want to tell you things not because I don’t treat you as my friend, it is just that I don’t want any friend to send me off when I’m flying oversea. I don’t like the unbearable feelings. So, not because I don’t treat you as my friend, so I don’t tell you about it. But, I’m worrying about you for not having enough rest, for not taking care of yourself. Sixth, I’m worrying about my boyfriend. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for ignoring you from time to time because of my season right now. I know you understand, and you want to go through it with me, but I’m sorry. I don’t want to add on to your burden even I know you don’t mind. I’m sorry, it is because of love therefore, I am acting differently. This are the ones, I truly concern and truly worried for. There are more, but I don’t wish to list them all. But there is one friend I want to tell more things to, that is Holly. You think I ignore you is for fun, doing it intentionally? No, but I just want you to feel how I feel when you did that to me. Of course, yours is never read, but you open WhatsApp and online, but what you did? Did you ignore my text? So, you think it is not doing intentionally? There are times I send you short text, did you reply too? You that time say because I send you long text, but how about the times I send you short text, did you reply me? Holly, it is about meaning what you say and about the effort you are taking out to reply messages. Busy, truly not an excuse for it. I’m trying to help you here, obeying the Word of God and what He called me to do, then did you try to help yourself? I know, you are going to say, I did try, but did you try harder and did you really try to change because of you are willing to do so? There is difference, holly. Do you get it? Life Story World – XH Ng Time Check: 30 November 2018/221pm

[anjaelle]

Wind Me Up

Pairing: Tangerine x Black!Reader

Warnings: Poking at an assassin's hidden praise kink for fun. No smut, but an allusion to smut.

Word Count: 1.1K

a/n: Something that was just rattling around in my head. What if you could get an assassin to whimper for you? There's something really fun about disarming a man that dabbles in violence for a living.

(gif source)

--

There were a few things in life that brought you pure, unfiltered pleasure: fresh laundry, the first scoop of ice cream from a carton, the sun on your face on a warm spring day, and making Tangerine flustered. It didn’t happen often. He very clearly liked being in control of most situations and had a huge affinity for bluntness.

And you usually acquiesced. But today you felt like being a menace.

You found him in the kitchen drinking whiskey and scrolling through his phone, chuckling under his breath. You could tell by the low chuckle that he was probably talking to Lemon. Because, between the both of you, Lemon was probably his favorite person and you couldn't even be mad about it.

You'd probably choose Lemon over you, too.

Tangerine was dressed down in black sweatpants and a tee shirt from some action movie you’d never seen, and his dark curls swept across his thick furrowed brows. You let out a slow, heavy sigh when he took a sip from his glass and his tongue darted out to absentmindedly lick his lower lip.

The devil on your shoulder said, “Ruin his evening.”

You strolled into the kitchen with pursed lips, admiring the way his arms and chest looked in that shirt and how good he smelled. You rested your elbow on the island separating you and said nothing but watched him with wide doe eyes until he sighed and shoved his phone into his pocket.

“You alright?” He casually asked. “What’s up?”

You felt the corners of your mouth twitch, but you softened your gaze. “Nothing, baby, I just wanted to come look at you.”

You both stared at one another for a beat, and he quirked a brow at you.

“…Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful, what do you mean?” You responded matter-of-factly. He squinted at you, but you maintained your innocence, “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

He finished the last of his whiskey and placed the tumbler in the sink, all the while refusing to take his eyes off of you in suspicion. “The hell are you on? You takin’ the piss?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes and sigh as you rounded the island to get closer to him, “I don’t joke about beauty, honey. I’m as serious as a heart attack.”

He snorted at you. Because of course he did. But as you hopped onto the counter and gently pulled him between your knees, he couldn’t help but rest his large, ring adorned hands on your thighs and mumble, “You’re serious? Or are you just trying to fuck with me? You want something.”

You felt his gaze rake over you, but you weren’t giving in. You would maintain the upper hand here. You gently caressed his chin and ran your thumb across his jaw.

“All I want is for you to keep looking at me. God, look at those eyes,” you cooed through slightly pursed lips, “and that nose, and those dimples, and those lips. Look at you. You’re so pretty, baby. How’d I get so lucky?”

His nose twitched, but you could see the hint of a pink bloom across his cheeks as he averted his eyes from yours, choosing to focus on his hands on you. "You're full of shit, you know that right?"

As you cocked your head to get a better look at his attempt at coyness, you shot him a playful and flirtatious smile, "You're so fucking cute when you blush."

"Okay no. Nope. Fuckin' no." He pulled away from you but you caught the way he seemed to fight the smile on his face by biting the corner of his mouth. Even though he turned his back to you and pretended to rummage through the fridge to escape your treachery, you knew you had Tangerine right where you wanted him. "You're not doing this."

"I don't know what you mean." You sighed, swinging your legs and hopping down from the counter.

"You do. You know what you're doing. You're being...me"

You couldn't even argue against that, because you were absolutely taking every page from his playbook. You wondered if anyone had ever told him these things before. Judging by his reaction, you guessed not. But it's not like you were really lying about what you told him. He really was the most gorgeous person you'd ever seen. Even his gruff, sarcastic demeanor had a level of natural charm to it. He had to have known that at least. You hummed to yourself and sidled up behind him, wrapping your arms around him to run your hands up his chest. You could feel his heart thud under your hand.

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" You purred, placing kisses on his back, "I'm thinking about the way you looked last night...with my hand wrapped around your throat and that fucked stupid glaze in your pretty eyes."

You felt his back tense and he looked at you over his shoulder. You challenged his gaze and he swallowed hard fighting some unreadable thoughts bobbing around in that adorable head of his. He seemed to be coming up short, so he parted his lips to simply say, "You're evil."

Maybe. But you weren't wrong. You could feel yourself going powermad now that the shoe was on the other foot, and you couldn't bring yourself to stop now.

"So are you saying you don't like getting on your knees for me? We both know that's not true."

In the blink of an eye the fridge was closed, and you were back up on the counter with his hands gripping your hips. His face was even redder than it was before. You gave him your best shit-eating grin.

"You're not allowed to do that." He declared, though his voice cracked a bit and you saw right through the faux bravado. The look in his eyes didn't match his demand in the slightest.

"Do what?"

"Just...that. Whatever you're doin'. It's--"

"What do you mean? I'm being so nice to you. You don't like it?" You reached up to comb your fingers through his hair, and not so innocently grip a handful in your fist. He let out a low groan and slowly closed his eyes. "There he is," you cooed again, kissing the corner of his mouth and along the stubbled, delicate skin of his throat. And when you kissed the pulse point just behind his jaw, and nibbled on his earlobe--earning a low whimper that spurred you on--you whispered in his ear, "there's my sweet boy. You're so fucking perfect, baby."

He hesitated as if his brain short circuited, and he let out a hoarse, "Yeah?"

"Mhm," you hummed, pulling him in closer, "In fact--"

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he blinked like he'd been pulled out of a trance. Confusion and disappointment crossed his features, and as he pulled out his phone to answer, he shot you a sidelong glance.

"Yeah. It's me. What is it now?" he answered after clearing his throat. Considering his evening sufficiently ruined, you jumped down from the counter and kissed him on the cheek.

"Have fun at work." You whispered.

#tangerine x black!reader #tangerine x reader #aaron taylor johnson x reader #atj x reader #aaron taylor johnson x black!reader #atj x black!reader #jaelle writes

[anjaelle]

Study Buddies

Pairing: College!Dave Lizewski x Black!Reader Summary: He's decidedly taken permanent residence in this dorm room, and you can't say it bothers you much. Warnings: Language, mentions of bruising/battering. Word Count: 2k a/n: The successor to Dumpster Diving. The same two losers in the same universe. Only because you guys asked so nicely.

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--x--

"I feel like this is an abuse of my good graces."

You watched as Dave Lizewski climbed through your window for the third time that week and tripped over your extension cord, falling to the floor with a dull thud. He popped back up, readjusting his hoodie and his glasses.

"You really need to move that somewhere."

"Right," you nodded, nudging the power strip with your foot, "gotta make sure my flurry of suitors have clear access to my boudoir."

He cracked a smile at you, one he rarely expressed in public for other people, and you felt your heart thump against your ribs.

Absolutely fucking not.

You plopped onto your bed and crossed your legs, "Okay, Kick-Ass, what brings you to my window this time?"

You were prepared for another round of bruises and cuts from endless fights he seemed to get himself into. Sometimes he explained the injuries, other times he didn't. But he was just happy he had someone who could help him without asking too many questions.

This time he simply shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back on his heels.

"I kinda...just wanted to see you today."

"Oh!"

There was a heavy pause and he scratched the back of his head.

"Yeaaaah."

You propped your chin on your fist, inquisitively, eying the way he seemed to fit so seamlessly into your living space. "You just saw me at study group this afternoon."

"C'mon you know it's not the same."

He was right. Sure, you had the tendency to sit next to each other in study group and bump knees. And you could feel his glances every five minutes. And sure, when he wasn't passing glances at you, you were passing glances at him wondering why he wasn't looking at you.

And, yes, you did know what it felt like to have him sleep on your chest while you stroked his soft curly hair. But that usually only happened after you got him sorted out. This was new.

You scooted over and patted the space next to you on the bed, which he happily plopped down on like he always did after leaning over to kiss you on the forehead.

"So you came all this way and climbed the side of a building for little old me? I still don't know why you don't use the front door."

“The security guard creeps me out. Besides, I’m not spider-man. I just used some guy’s ladder.”

“You stole someone’s ladder?”

“He wasn’t using it!”

“What if he’s on some roof trying to get down now?”

He stared at you. You stared back. His eyes widened.

"I'll be right back!" He jumped up and rushed out the door, shouting behind him, "Prop the front door open for me!"

He came back about ten minutes later, red-faced with a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. His hair was messy like he'd been running, and his glasses were slightly askew.

"So..."he took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his sweater, "there was a guy on the roof. He was really pissed and, uh, I got freaked out and ran."

You noticed the grass stains on his clothes, which was clear evidence that he tripped and fell at least once on the way back. It was hard not to feel the swell of...something...deep in the pit of your stomach.

"Another job well done, Kick-Ass. Always thinking of the common man." You playfully tugged at the zipper of his hoodie, zipping it up and down while he cleaned his dirty glasses off on the Watchmen shirt you got him.

Because that's what friends did. You bought stuff for each other. For fun.

He didn't think twice about stripping down to his underclothes to throw his things in the wash. His reasons were partially because his roommates were always too lazy to clear their machine out for him to use, partially because he really liked your detergent (he admitted that the smell reminded him of you), and partially because he knew you didn't like when he wore his "gross street clothes" in your room.

Which was absolutely fair.

After throwing his grass-stained, dirty clothes in the wash, he flopped onto your bed and stared at the fairy lights that decorated the ceiling. You sat cross-legged next to him, looking him over and subconsciously checking for new injuries. You'd learned first aid just to help him with his stitches...and the occasional bullet removal. You didn't learn the bullet removal in first aid class. You puked the first time. You could still see the messy stitching in his shoulder where he was shot.

The mixtape he made for you played lowly out of the speaker on your desk, and you heard him humming softly to himself in thought.

"I like your room." He suddenly said, tilting his head to fully address you.

You cracked a smile at him, "Yeah I can tell. You've been hanging out here every other day for the last 2 months. You might as well move in."

A light, airy laugh bubbled out of him in waves. It sounded almost like a giggle, which made you giggle too.

"Why are we laughing?" You asked bumping him with your knee.

Dave pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he thought deeply about what he wanted to say next. The fact that he lacked a poker face made him relatively easy to read--and he's said the same about you at least once.

He tapped your knee with his knuckle, "Nothing. I--just...nothing. I promise."

You sat in comfortable silence again as the music filled the room and the gentle golden lights cast shadows along the walls.

"Has anyone ever followed you here?" You asked.

"No."

It was a stern, short answer. Absolute. Definite. His eyes scanned you from head to toe before settling on your face. It was the most serious you'd ever seen him. When he propped himself on his elbow to rest his head on his hand, he clenched his jaw.

"I'd never let that happen. I would never come here first because I'd never put you in the position to be in danger."

"I know," you admitted, carefully, "I was just wondering--"

"I'd never let anything happen to you." He stated with a shrug.

You instinctively reached out and pushed his dark curls back and away from his eyes, "I thought I was the one keeping you safe. How did we get here?"

In one swift motion, he wrapped his arms around you to pull you on top of him like you weighed nothing. His strength always seemed to surprise you. You barely had time to let out a shocked squeak.

"You can't keep doing that."

His eyes widened, "Did that hurt? I'm sorry--"

"No," you swatted his chest, playfully, "I'm fine. I'm just never really prepared for it."

When he was sure he didn't severely traumatize you with his displays of affection, he resumed rubbing small, lazy circles into your lower back.

"Sorry for startling you."

"You're forgiven."

He leaned forward and kissed your nose.

Dave Lizewski was an enigma. Beneath the nervousness, the dorkiness, the shyness, and general earnestness was someone who surprisingly had a lot of game. You used to imagine that he practiced his lines in the mirror before he visited you. Then you realized...no. He's just very honest when he's comfortable.

You rested your head on his chest to listen to his strong, steady heartbeat that seemed to pick up speed. When you reached up to gently touch the healing scar on his collarbone where he was nearly stabbed, he shifted under you.

"What are you thinking?" He suddenly asked.

"I get scared for you sometimes."

He said nothing, but you felt his hand pause before continuing its trek down your back.

"You're still a human being, y'know," you added, "even when I pulled you out of the dumpster--"

"Which I still thank you for, by the way."

You snorted, "You're welcome. But even when I pulled you from the dumpster, you could've died from how high you fell. And then there's the stabbing, and the shooting, and you got hit by a crowbar once..."

He seemed to consider this. Then he said, "Someone has to do it. No one else on campus--in town--has stepped up to the plate yet."

"But why does it have to be you?"

"Why not me?"

"You can't answer my question with another question, you asshat."

He laughed at your outburst and lightly patted you on the butt.

"Compromise? I pinky swear to stop after graduation."

You didn't believe him. But when he held his pinky out to you, you wrapped yours around his and he pulled you in for a quick peck on the lips.

"Fine. But if you're still running around lower manhattan in a onesie at 26, I'm telling your dad."

You curled yourself back up against his chest while he curled one of your braids around his finger, absentmindedly.

"You don't have to worry about that, by the way." He said, dropping your hair, "I just really, really like the idea of you still being in my life four or five years from now."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Dave nervously pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose again, "I dunno. I just...I think you're really cool and I know I can be weird sometimes. And I know you might not see me the way I see you but-"

You leaned forward to kiss him once and then twice. And as your curled your fingers into his hair, he seemed to melt into your touch with a soft groan. He pulled away just enough to rip his glasses off and toss them in the corner before pulling you in again. He wrapped a calloused hand around the back of your neck when you nipped at his lower lip. Your fingernails slipped under his undershirt to walk along the sensitive skin of his lower stomach, just above the waistband of his boxers, and he shuddered.

"Fuck," he hissed, kissing along your jaw and down your throat, "God, I love you."

Your eyes popped open. "What?"

"What?"

He trailed kisses back up to your lips like nothing happened, but you could feel his heart thudding in his chest.

"Did you... just say...you loved me?" You asked, between kisses. He pulled away and stared at you with panic in his wide blue eyes.

"Yes. No. Yes...shit did I ruin it? Do you want me to go?"

"No."

You felt a rush of an unexplained emotion flow through you as you pulled your hand out from under his shirt.

He traced the shape of your lower lip with this thumb before dropping his hand to your shoulder, "I--you don't have to say it back. It just slipped out."

You rolled off of him and crawled up the bed to rest your back against the wall. He hesitated, then slid into the space beside you.

"I lied," he mumbled, "I was gonna say it before, but you distracted me with your mouth. Again."

You sighed and reached over to hold his hand.

"How long?"

"Since last semester."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

You watched him thump his head against the wall, "Because I didn't want to ruin our friendship. But, y'know, we crossed that line the first time we smanged, I think."

"Please don't say smanged."

You could hear the grin in his voice without looking at him, "We smanged."

You flicked him on the shoulder and he laughed. Some of the nervous tension melted away as he squeezed your hand.

"Like I said," he continued, "you don't have to say it back. It's okay if you don't feel the same way."

You thought for a moment about how often you worried about him and how often he watched over you. He seemed to always be around, even when he wasn't physically there. Dave was undoubtedly your best friend. You turned to look at him only to find him already watching you with the most intense gaze you'd ever seen. Felt your cheeks heat up.

"I'm not sure if it's love yet." You said, carefully, "But...I think it could be."

#aaron taylor johnson x black!reader #aaron taylor johnson x reader #atj x reader #atj x black!reader #dave lizewski x reader #jaelle writes

[anjaelle]

Aged up Dave Lizewski x reader (they're friends) were she's a villain and her dad is a bionics specialist so she has bionic abilities and her and kick-ass fight but they both get seriously injured and the next day everyone meets up at the comic store and you both noticed familiar scratches/cuts so you decide to talk about it privately but instead of getting mad you geek over eachother and end up becoming closer.

@caloetta So I changed it a little bit while keeping the same general idea. I hope you still like it.

Pairing: Post-Grad!Dave Lizewski x Villain!Reader

Warnings: Bruising & Battering, Knife Injury, Language

a/n: I had to dip into the Wiki because I could remember a lot about the character, but not as much as I thought lol

Send me requests and prompts here!

--

He caught on early that you didn't know. Beyond the mask and the sleek bionic bodysuit, he could see the telltale quirk in your eyebrow and the way you flexed your right hand in frustration.

He wanted to believe that calling your name would end the fight. But he knew your father. He knew that you didn't have a choice. It was either kill or be killed with him, and Dave was absolutely not going to kill you.

He also didn't want to die. So he had to whip out the unexpected third option: tire you out, deflect, and run like a little bitch. He felt himself getting pummeled as he blocked each of the extremely painful punches you landed onto his forearms and legs.

"Fight back!" You grunted in anger, throwing another blocked right hook, "God damn it, fight back!"

He noticed your moves getting sloppy as you struggled to understand where the fight was going. You knew he was holding back, and he knew you had something to prove. He saw an opening and took it, kicking you square in the chest and across the room. You hit a pillar and fell to the ground, struggling to get the air back into your lungs.

"Mother...fuck..." you gasped, coughing.

Worried that you were seriously injured, Dave took a step towards you with raised hands, "I'm sorry, I had to--UGH!"

A large knife flew across the room, burying itself deep in the palm of his hand with expert precision, missing every single important tendon but still deep enough to cause a LOT of bleeding.

"Gotcha, you piece of shit." You groaned, rolling over onto your back in exhaustion. Despite the protection the suit gave you, you were still new to this. It was no wonder your father let you practice the tech on someone like him. After all, who was Kick-Ass in the grand scheme of things? Low-level street vigilante? Just some guy?

He took a deep breath and pulled the knife out, letting out a string of slurred vulgarities. The knife had an intricate design on the flat of the blade, with your initials etched in just above the fancily designed handle. It looked like it was a gift from your father.

"Whoa, this is nice."

Your suit hummed as it examined your vitals and whirred to repair any damage. You grunted, "Please, shut the fuck up and go before I murder you."

His stomach flipped when you showed up for work at the shop two days later, holding your ribs and walking with a slight limp. He immediately felt the rush of guilt for kicking you into a concrete pillar, but it wasn't like he had much of a choice. The bandage wrapped around his hand and the stitches underneath were punishment enough. As you leaned up against a shelf of comics to collect yourself, you locked eyes with him and pursed your lips.

"You look like garbage," you said. And then he saw the smile creeping up on your lips when you glanced at his bandaged hand, "Whose little sister beat your ass?"

There was a beat of silence between you as he tried to figure out if you were messing with him or not.

"The same one that beat yours, apparently," he quirked an eyebrow and you briefly matched his expression before dragging your feet to the counter. You leaned in close to him, conspiratorially.

"I want my knife back," you whispered.

He shrugged nonchalantly, peeking over your shoulder to watch the customers mill through the aisles, "I feel like you should've thought about that before throwing it at me."

You plastered a laid back smile on your face as a customer approached the counter with a stack of graphic novels, and you leaned forward on your elbows.

"How did you figure it out?"

Dave absentmindedly scanned each book and placed them in the protective wrapping like it was second nature. You were bold for choosing to have this discussion in front of a civilian, but that didn't seem to surprise him. You loved dabbling in risky behavior in college. Why would anything change 5 years after you left?

"You've got a tell," he admitted, "and...c'mon. I know you like the back of my fucked up hand."

He waved his bandaged hand around for emphasis and you snorted, not feeling the least bit guilty. You were just impressed that your incredibly nerdy, overeager friend was capable of knocking the wind out of you. Ordinarily, you'd leap over the counter to the other side. But, considering the condition of your torso, you chose to take the long way. As you pathetically limped around the back to enter the back room, you could feel his eyes trailing you over the customer's head.

"Let me see." He said, shutting the backroom door behind him. You sighed as you slipped on your sneaker, rolling your eyes.

"It's not that bad."

"If it's not that bad, you'll let me see the damage."

God, he was such a boy scout sometimes. "If you wanted me to take my top off, you could just ask."

You could feel him burning holes into you as you slipped on your other shoe, and you actively avoided eye contact. In truth, he fucked you up bad. It would've been worse without the suit. The only reason you weren't mad was because you knew you got a few good licks in, too. His pretty face had a few bruises and scratches, so you could only imagine what the rest of him looked like.

"Dude..." he huffed, "Stop being a dickhead for five seconds and just show me what the fuck I did to you."

The concern was seeping into his voice and you wanted to ease his guilt. After all, he was just doing his job. It's not like you held a grudge.

You stood and lifted your shirt, exposing the black, purple, and blue bruises along your torso. He clenched his jaw.

When your father saw what Kick-Ass did, he had to be talked down from placing a hit out on him. You had to remind him that it was all a part of the job, and he needed to calm the hell down.

You also didn't want to lose one of the few friends you had.

He crossed the room in a few steps, reaching out to you in frustration.

"Jesus, I'm so sorry." But you scrunched your nose at him like he was insane.

"Why are you sorry? I beat your ass too. It's not like you got away scott free."

He hesitated and then gently ran his fingers along your tender skin to trace the outline of your brightest bruise. You suppressed a shudder, watching as he looked you over with equal parts curiosity, concern, and surprise.

"I had to take an ice bath when I got back to my apartment," he admitted, sheepishly, "I didn't even know you could fight like that."

Without warning, he lifted his shirt to show the numerous rapidly healing cuts and bruises along his very well defined torso. You were almost shocked at how far along his healing was, given the circumstances. All of that strangeness aside, you couldn't stop the exclamation that escaped your throat. It sounded like a mix of a gasp and a cough.

"When the shit did you get so ripped, Lizewski?"

He blushed a deep red. Because of course he did, the humble little bastard.

"You've seen me with my shirt off before."

"I'm sure I'd remember that if I had." You said, eyeing his injuries more closely. You noticed the distinct marks from your bionic suit, and noted that he was a lot stronger than you realized. The more you thought about it, maybe you were lucky that he liked you. You reached out to touch a yellowing bruise on his ribs.

"That's so weird," you said, "Why do your bruises look like that when mine don't."

"I dunno."

He was full of shit. But you wouldn't push.

"I still want my goddamn knife back. It's kind of important to me."

When you finally took a step back to look him over, you found him watching you with an amused look on his face.

"What?" You asked, cracking a grin.

He grinned back.

"You're just gonna have to take it from me."

#dave lizewski x reader #kick-ass #atj x reader #jaelle writes #aaron taylor johnson

[anjaelle]

The Next Great American Epic

Pairings: Professor!Oscar Isaac x Black Female!Reader

Warnings: Oral (f!receiving), Age Gap (Reader is in mid-late 20s), Student x Teacher Relationship, Unprotected Sex (strap up, people), implied infidelity

Summary: Professor Hernandez Estrada is a proven smartass and literary genius. As much as you can't stand the way he tears your work to shreds, you can't help but respect him and hold his opinion of you in high regard.

Word Count: 4.2K

a/n: Based on this post and the intense love I have for gray, studious looking Oscar. I started this in July 2022, and I'm just now finishing it. I'm semi ashamed but also not. Don't judge me.

(gif source)

Oscar treated every lecture like a performance, to some degree. You could feel the passion behind his words and knew he spent countless sleepless nights dissecting the language of the great intellectuals before him.

He was a nerd, thus, incredibly attractive in that "dad's best friend who's a museum curator and laughs at his own history jokes" kind of way. His written work was brilliant. You wanted to impress him. Not just because he was cute--though that was a bonus--but because he pissed you off with how incredibly critical he was of you. You were convinced he did it just to fuck with you, specifically, for shits and giggles. Every so often, you'd zone out imagining him cackling madly at your work, using his Red Pen of Death to hurt your pride. Sometimes you'd imagine a deeply passionate argument between you two, ending with you throwing things. Sometimes it ended with you splayed out on his desk. Again.

When that happened, you'd mentally return to the lecture and find him looking at you, curiously. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear that he could read your thoughts.

He paced the front of the room in a heavy black sweater with the sleeves rolled up, occasionally pushing his thick rimmed glasses up his nose as he spoke. The brief pauses he took to sip water or ask a question were punctuated by the click-clack of keyboards throughout the room. Or, in your case, the shuffling of papers. Writing with pen to paper helped your scattered brain remember things better, though you couldn't help but feel largely out of touch for the archaic method of note-taking.

"Who decides what literary work is inherently American?" He asked to the class, "Where's the line? When the artist of color is placed into a box as an 'other' or designated as American with an asterisk, are publications and critics implying that the author is not truly American?

"After all," he said, removing his glasses to wipe them, "the cultural zeitgeist is shaped by an amalgamation of many experiences. Is the story of an immigrant from Colombia 100 years ago any less American than the tale of a farmer from Oklahoma during the Great Depression? When we ask for tried and true stories of American Grit, whose stories are we reading?"

Sure, he said that experiences mattered. But, god, was he anal about the details. The newest revision of your work peeked from behind your notebook, scarred in red ink. When you received it back earlier that afternoon, you resisted the burning desire to throw it back at him and tell him to eat a dick. The first couple of times he shot your writing down, you could understand perfectly what he was looking for. This time, you were sure that you were following his advice down to the letter, and it still wasn't good enough for him.

He absentmindedly pushed his salt and pepper curls from his forehead and you wanted to flip a table.

Oscar paused his pacing in front of your desk as you scribbled your thoughts down. You chanced a glance at him to find him already looking over your notes.

"Huh," he had the audacity to smile at you and mutter softly, "Nice handwriting."

Your cheeks warmed at the praise of your neatly looping cursive. The eyes of your peers burned into your back.

He gently tapped your desk with his calloused knuckle and continued on with his lecture, as if his little comment was just a natural part of his daily performance. It was the first time in a while that you'd interacted with him in a way that didn't involve him explaining why your marked up thesis was shit. You could appreciate the compliment, even if it had nothing to do with the quality of the work you put blood, sweat, and tears into.

And now you were annoyed again.

You knew that Oscar wasn't surprised to find you standing outside of his office. A polite smile graced his lips, though something else flickered across his features that you vaguely recognized. You plastered your own polite smile on your face and waved your thick stack of paper at him.

"Explain, Oscar."

Without another word, he tiredly unlocked his office door and motioned for you to enter the roomy space. Numerous large bookcases lined the wall parallel to his desk, and stacks of newspapers and literary journals decorated the ottoman rug that spanned the width of his office. A small fridge and espresso machine sat on a desk in the corner. Above it was a fading portrait of a young looking South Asian man with neatly combed hair and a trimmed mustache, wearing a smart looking suit. The first time you saw it, you surmised by the aged clothing and studious expression that it was a portrait of the university’s very first professor of color, Benjamin Kapoor.

The office was nearly the size of your studio apartment. Perfect for the department head, you thought. The minute he shut the door behind him, he sighed and ran his hand down his face.

"Well, first of all, 'Hey Oscar, how are you?' I'm great. Thanks for asking," He sarcastically quipped. “Would you like some coffee? Maybe some tea, if you’re cutting back on your habit, again?”

"Small talk is redundant," you handed him your papers, "you know why I'm here."

He plopped down in the plush chair behind his desk, and you followed suit on the couch beside it. His chair creaked as he leaned back and thumbed through the pages, reading his own notes. You couldn't quite get a read on his perception, but he hummed in thought. After a couple of minutes he handed your work back to you and shrugged.

"In simple terms: it's mechanical. You’re holding back on putting emotion into your characters. Your protagonist's factory worker father and merchant marine brother don’t feel real. It's too matter-of-fact. Too cold."

You shook your head in frustration, "I don't understand. First, you tell me that my language is too flowery. Now you're saying it's too mechanical. Which is it? Pick a criticism, because now it just feels like you're pulling it out of your ass."

The words slipped out before you could catch them, and your eyes widened in surprise at the venom laced in your tone. But, to your surprise, Oscar just laughed.

"Look, find a middle ground. I don't know how else to state it any plainer than I already have."

You wondered if you'd get expelled for throwing his briefcase out the window.

"I'm glad you think your bias is funny."

His expression changed at the implication, and he stared at you in confusion.

"Bias? Jesus, is that what you think?"

The words you'd been holding in for the majority of the semester came spilling out of you.

"I feel like you don't really respect me as a writer," you crossed your arms, "You think I'm stupid. Or incompetent. But this right here," you motioned to the paper in your lap, "This is just ridiculous. It's nitpicking and tearing my work to shreds. Do you get something out of this? This story means a lot to me. It's the story of my family. Do you understand the level of research and reading it took to bring this work into fruition? With all due respect, it's fucking hard, Oscar. I'm doing the best I can."

He merely stared at you with furrowed brows, "With as long as my tenure has been—for as long as you’ve known me, you think I don't know this?" He stood up from his chair and sat on the edge of his desk in front of you, "You think this problem is unique to you? I aim to challenge all of my students."

You laughed humorlessly, "I've seen the notes you write on other people's stories. It's nowhere near the same level of harsh."

"To you, it may not be."

"I still don't understand what you want from me. More details. Less details. More emotion. Less emotion. Descriptors, but not too descriptive. Make your characters realistic, but oh no, not too mundane. It's all bullshit--"

"It's missing the essence of you." He confessed, scratching his bearded chin, "Your story reads like something anyone could write. The only personal touches in your story--and if you notice, the only things I haven't edited much--are your letters and journal entries. They give a clear idea of how your characters interact with one another. And I think you add a little bit of yourself to them, outside of the narrative.

"Your voice is prevalent in everything you write. Unique and intuitive. Your work isn’t you, Bee. I miss...that."

There was a pregnant pause. Your stomach swooped at the slip of your old nickname, and you crossed your legs to stop the nervous fidgeting. He swallowed hard, and toyed with the watch on his wrist.

"I think..." you began, meeting his eyes for the first time, "I think I'm subconsciously trying to sound like you. Even though you piss me off."

He barked out a laugh, "I don't know if that's a compliment or a testament to how I can improve."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. He soldiered on.

"You're a brilliant writer. I just know you can do better," he drummed his fingers on his desk. Suddenly he grinned at you, "You've read my writing? You like my writing? And you're admitting it freely? And here I was thinking you hated me." Now it was your turn to furrow your brows in confusion. Catching your expression, he explained, "Every time I look at you, you either look bored, lost in your own thoughts, or like you want to murder me. And then there's the arguing--"

"I don't hate you, Oscar. You just exhaust me." You said, standing up to meet him at eye level. "You'd argue with you, too. You can't always be the only sarcastic asshole in the room."

He looked at you with a mix of amusement and what you could only describe as relief. He leaned forward, letting out a deep breath he seemed to be holding the entire time. You were close enough to smell his favorite dark roast coffee and his signature cologne--something bold, but warm and comfy. Kind of like him.

"Did you have any other questions? About the thesis or...something? You know you can ask me anything." he crossed his arms over his chest. Was he flexing? The thought tickled you.

"Just one. But not about the thesis." You asked, gently, taking a step towards him, "You said every time you look at me, I look pensive. How often do you look at me?"

He eyed you slowly. Fire danced behind his gaze, despite his calm demeanor. It reminded you of the look on his face when he read a moving sonnet or recited romantic prose. The sight of him looking at you like his favorite work of art made your belly warm. After a beat of silence that dragged on for ages, he licked his lips and shook his head, finally tearing his eyes away from you. He murmured, "More often than I should." Then he sighed, "We shouldn't be having this conversation. I'm not--it's..."

"No you're right," you began, feeling the rush of bravery trickling from your quickly beating heart, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You could never do that. It's just not professional--"

"It's SUPER unprofessional actually--"

"--you could lose your grant and--"

"--you JUST finalized the divorce--"

"--implicit bias and difficulty being objective--"

"--it's just a passing thought."

He pushed away from the desk, taking a step closer to you, and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

"Maybe..." he cleared his throat, "you might want to...go."

You nodded, "I should leave."

"I could walk you out."

Neither of you made another move and his fingers tapped on his thigh. You watched his eyes travel from your face and down your body, as if he could see right through your clothes.

"Are you?"

He was so close that you could count every single strand of hair in his thick, coarse beard.

"Am I...?" He questioned, eyes dropping to your lips.

"Going to walk me out?" You finished. You could see him weighing his options. He glanced at the door, then back at you.

“I…it’s—” He sighed again, “I miss you, Bee.”

You wanted to get mad and tell him that he wasn’t allowed to do this. You felt stupid for being so easily baited by a smile and sharp wit. Instead of being smart and telling him to fuck off, you shook your head.

“You miss feeling wanted,” you corrected, “You don’t miss me.”

“You don’t know how wrong that is. Do you know how many times I’ve gone out with other women and found myself thinking ‘I wonder what Bee’s doing right now. Is she with someone else? Am I making a mistake?’” He removed a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and tossed it on the desk, “I thought I was making a good choice. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.”

“A good choice for who, exactly?” You asked, eyeing him with skepticism.

“For both of us. For you.”

You could admit that hooking up with him while he was in the process of a divorce was messy. For the brief 3 months you were together over the summer, you couldn’t stop being doubtful. It blurred the lines of whether he was fucking his sadness away or if he truly had feelings for you. You felt your fingers twitch as if they wanted to reach out and grab him. Instead, you shoved your traitorous hand into your back pocket. You were petty enough to not be the first one to make a move.

“The thing is, Oscar, I’m a grown woman and I don’t need you to make decisions for me.” You countered, “I might be younger, sure, but I’m not a kid.”

“I know.” He agreed, quietly.

“You said you wanted time to process things—”

“33 Weeks,” he said, suddenly, “An arduous, sunless, painful 33 weeks without you. I never fully understood the pain of missing you until I was forced to see you and not touch you. Every time you speak or look at me or challenge me, I feel even more stupid for letting you go.”

You couldn’t help yourself, “You are stupid.”

You cracked a smile at him and he smiled back, eyes crinkling at the corners behind his frames. He reached out and caressed your face, tracing a calloused thumb along your cheek and resting his forehead against yours.

“Goddamn you’re beautiful,” he groaned, slowly closing his eyes. You could trace every wrinkle, freckle, and scar with a finger from memory, if you wanted to. The spearmint gum he favored between smoke breaks tickled your nose, and his hand slipped down to the point where your throat met your clavicle.

You were keenly aware that your pulse was thrumming rapidly under his pen-calloused fingers, and that your chest rose and fell in quick succession. You closed the space between you, pulling him in for a deep kiss. The traitorous hand that freed itself from the confines of your pocket curled into his sweater. Oscar's arm snaked around your waist and the hand near your throat tightened, pulling a low, strained moan out of you. He mockingly mimicked your moan and pulled away to kiss along your jaw.

"You need to be a little quiet, Bee," he nipped at your skin and you smiled, "you don't want the others to hear, do you?"

You opened your eyes to meet his gaze, and you knew he could see the devilish glint dancing in them.

"I mean, I can try."

When you stretched out over his tidy mahogany desk and he pushed your legs apart, hiking your skirt over your ass, you couldn't help the self-satisfied grin that pulled at your lips. You wanted this for so long. You craved it. None of the toys in your nightstand could compare to the feeling of his strong hands on your thighs and the feel of his tongue teasing you open.

"Oh my god...look at you," he sighed, burying his face deep between your legs. You giggled, running your fingers through his curls to grab a handful and pulling a soft groan from his lips. Your hips twitched when he pressed a firm thumb against the front of your panties. The way his breath hitched left a deeper feeling of longing that seemed alien to you. And as he peeled the fabric to the side and spread you open to him, his free hand gripped your thigh greedily and hiked your leg up with your knee to your chest.

You felt your heart thrumming in your ears with anticipation and the major thrill of someone potentially walking in on you with his head between your legs. He wrapped his lips around you, swirling his tongue in small quick circles in that same way you loved and could never quite get used to. Your mouth fell open as the haze of ecstacy started to cloud any thoughts that weren't about him.

"I needed you." You whispered, gently scratching his scalp, "I needed you so bad."

He hummed, moaning against you and tickling your inner thighs with the soft hair of his beard. You peered down at him to watch him devour you like a starving man's first meal. He'd taken his glasses off, and you could see the way his lashes fluttered in complete bliss as he dipped his tongue into you. He looked up at you and locked eyes just as a shrill moan threatened to burst from your lips. You quickly covered your mouth and you felt him smile at you. He pulled away, replacing his mouth with his thick fingers. With each flick of the hand he watched you arch your back off his desk and scramble to grab onto something...anything to ground you.

He sharply pulled you closer to the edge of the desk and hoisted your other knee up to your chest, leaving you completely exposed to him and anyone that could walk in the room. He teased you with the tip of his tongue, watching you squirm impatiently before he curled his tongue against your clit.

He'd been dreaming of seeing you like this. But even his dreams couldn't live up to the reality of how sweet you tasted and the look of nirvana on your face. He He could hear the sharp intake of breath and the small whimpers you earnestly tried to swallow down. He wanted to tell you to be as loud as you wanted. Fuck the rules and anyone who heard. But that'd be stupid.

And you didn't deserve stupid.

He found that perfect sensitive spot that made you smack the desk with your hand and try to wriggle away from his mouth, but he pulled you closer.

"Mm-mm, no running." He mumbled nipping your thigh. He returned his lips to you, sucking you slowly between his lips. Your chest heaved, and you scrambled to figure out what to do with your hands. When you reached down to press his face harder between your thighs, he let himself release a low, muffled groan. He needed you so fucking badly. He wanted to stretch this out for as long as he could, but he knew that was impossible.

He wanted to make the most out of the limited time he had with you.

He pulled his mouth away and dipped his fingers into you, coaxing you closer to the edge. And when he leaned forward to kiss you, you pulled him in hungrily, wrapping your thighs around his hips and undoing his belt with quick fingers. He pulled away to look you over once again: your hair was a mess, your lips were swollen, your eyes were glazed, and you looked fucking beautiful. You reached up to stroke his cheek.

"What?" You asked, scrunching your nose at him.

"Are you sure?"

"About?"

His hand remained splayed on your lower stomach and your fingers were hooked in the waistband of his boxers. You sat up and he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours.

Oscar murmured, "Bee, if we do this, I'm not going back to keeping my distance. I'm going to fuck you in every corner of this office. I'm going to want you again," He kissed you, "and again," another kiss, "and again."

You absentmindedly brushed your fingers against his lower stomach and traced the outline of his dick through his boxers. "And on the weekends?"

You dipped your hand behind his waistband, and pulled it down to wrap your hand around him. He hissed sharply, shutting his eyes.

"Shit, honey..." he groaned. "I'm all yours."

You slowly stroked him, watching him melt under your touch. For a moment you could see the younger version of him, just as handsome but not nearly as refined as he liked to present himself in public. His salt and pepper curls were no longer neatly styled and you saw the hint of flush peeking out from under his olive skin. His perfect mouth fell open as you traced the swollen head of him with your thumb.

When you finally took a breath and felt him guide himself into you, that familiar flutter in your lower stomach made you bite your lower lip. A deep shudder wracked both of your bodies like your first hit of a long abandoned drug. He kept the pace slow and steady, focusing on the way you felt around him and trying to keep it to memory like he'd never experience it again.

You pulled him down for another deep kiss, wanting a connection with him in every way possible. You noticed the brief way his strokes faltered, and the way he grabbed your thighs to pull them around his hips to push deeper into you and at just the right angle to make you cry out.

"Right there," you pleaded, arching your hips up to angle him deeper, "God, rightthere rightthere rightthere."

He grunted, dropping his head onto your shoulder as he picked up the rhythm of his hips. "You're perfect for me. You're fucking perfect, angel. I'm never letting you go again."

You tried to form coherent thoughts and words, but everything turned to a sludge of gibberish on your tongue.

You hated the way that he seemed to know you like a familiar map. It was so easy to drown in him. When you reached down to touch yourself, he grabbed your hand and pinned it to the desk, interlacing your fingers. He dipped his free hand between you, choosing to tease your clit with his thumb while he picked up the pace of his strokes.

"Did you miss this, Bee?" He murmured under his breath.

You nodded, allowing your eyes to drift closed.

"No, baby, look at me." He commanded.

You did as you were told, looking deep into his gorgeous dark eyes that seemed to read you from the inside out.

"Did you miss me?"

"I missed this so much." you moaned, feeling the warmth building in your lower tummy.

He thrust into you sharply and a shrill cry rang out that you were sure echoed into the hallway. You nearly slammed your head into the desk with the force that your body jolted. The sensitivity was almost overwhelming and when you tried to scoot away again, he gave you another smack on the thigh.

"What did I say about running?" He let go of your hand to pull your thighs tighter around him as he drove into you with renewed vigor. His jaw clenched as he focused on your building pleasure. Thumb returned to your clit. Your mouth dropped open, but nothing came out but a strangled gasp. His thumb sped up between your thighs and you let out a string of slurred words as your hips shook.

"Fuck, I love you so much, oh God, oh God. I fucking love you."

"This is yours, now. It's all yours. Nobody else's." He breathlessly whispered against your cheek.

You reached down to grab his hand almost begging him for reprieve that you knew he wouldn't give you. You tightened around him and he sucked air sharply between his teeth, which only gave him more determination to push you over the edge. You pulled him down into a kiss just as the wave of pleasure crashed over you and you drowned your cry into his mouth. His strokes grew sloppy and erratic as you rolled your hips against him with equal force.

"Come on baby," you cooed to him, curling your fingers into his hair and giving it a sharp tug. He buried his head into your shoulder and let out a low, deep grunt as he came. You felt him press small kisses along your neck, trailing them up your chin and to your lips. After taking a minute to get his bearings, he reluctantly pulled out with a low shuddering breath. He kissed you again, and you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders enjoying the feeling of his hands on you.

After some brief, very gentle aftercare, you helped each other get redressed, sharing kisses and touches along the way.

"So..." he leaned up against his desk, cleaning off his glasses to put them back on, "am I seeing you tomorrow?"

You gave him a slow, deep kiss and his hands traveled to your ass, "If I'm up all night revising with your stupid edits, we'll see how I feel. No guarantees, though."

#oscar isaac x reader #oscar isaac smut #oscar issac fic #oscar isaac #jaelle writes