#The Untrustworthy Speaker

[strykerlancer]

— Louise Glück, from “The Untrustworthy Speaker.”

#Louise Glück #The Untrustworthy Speaker #words #literature #poetry #quotes #out of my collection #lit #abyss of words #quote

[metamorphesque]

  — The Untrustworthy Speaker, Louise Glück

[text ID: In my own mind, I’m invisible: that’s why I’m dangerous.]

#louise glück #poem #poetry #the untrustworthy speaker #quotes #literature #dark academia #classic literature

[llovelymoonn]

I feel most relationships to me are situationships and I always leave sad it never got to be an actual relationship and I feel used and lonely in my grief can I get a web weaving capturing those feelings?

louise glück ararat: "the untrustworthy speaker" \\ victoria hannan kokomo \\ richard siken crush: "litany in which certain things are crossed out" \\ william butler yeats aedh wishes for the cloths of heaven \\ matsuyama miyabi \\ regina spektor december \\ alexandra levasseur \\ richard siken crush: "litany in which certain things are crossed out"

kofi

#asks #anonymous #anon #on love #on self #louise gluck #louise glück #ararat #the untrustworthy speaker #mine #my webweaving #webweaving #web weaving #webweave #web weave #web #webs #ww #parallel #parallels #parallelism #compilation #compilations #intertext #intertextuality #comparative #comparatives #victoria hannan #kokomo #richard siken

[outstanding-quotes]

Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken.

I don’t see anything objectively.

Louise Glück, The Untrustworthy Speaker

#louise glück #the untrustworthy speaker #poetry #quote #literature #mary oliver #broken heart #heartbreak #love #love quote #pessimism

[cowboylor]

cabin fever

the studio begins to feel small with george and matty. 

wc: 4k

warnings: (18+) smut, oral (m. receiving), unprotected sex, threesome, voyeurism, degradation, thigh riding, teasing, smoking, consensual workplace relations? (matty and reader have an implied situationship)

note: this is only what i can describe as a doozy

You’ve asked Matty three times already if he wanted you to go on another coffee run and he’s dismissively waved you off with a grumble each time. This leaves you with no choice but to perch on the edge of the couch, picking your nails and listening to the same demo blast through the speakers for the past three hours. 

Matty’s brow furrows. “Play it back.”

George sighs but relents by pressing the playback button.

He runs his hands over his face, muttering, “’s not like it changed from the last ten times we’ve listened to it.” 

Huffing, you shift in your seat. 

You’re past trying to get comfortable and past the hopeful idea you could rest your eyes until they’ve finished editing. The repeated track gives you a headache and only reinstates the thought that you really don’t know what else Matty needs you here for.

Sparing him a glance, you watch him mouth along to both lyrics and rhythm, tapping his fingers against the desk as he searches for anything he dislikes about the track.

You lean back. This day really should be over.

Daydreaming about a shower and your freshly-washed duvet cover has been the only thing keeping you sane throughout the day. Your errand running has proved to be your least favorite thing about being his assistant but the most needed thing when it came to perfectionist musicians. 

You glance outside the hallway to see the darkening window. You have to be the only three left in the studio. Every other member of their congregation has gone home by now.

Matty and George have a hushed conversation five feet away from you. Their secrecy has you rolling your eyes.

You pick and rub your eyes.

“I think we’re in for it,” George says finally, fidgeting with one of the many buttons across the set up until the song is paused. 

You perk up. “I’ll get coffee.”

“Don’t need you to get coffee,” Matty huffs at your constant insistence. You’re moving to grab your keys and bag anyway when he turns his chair to look at you. “I need you here.”

You meet his stare blankly, clutching your keys in your hand as he scolds you. George turns to eye both of of you, then shoots you a pointed look as if to say Don’t push it. 

“Why?” You groan.

Matty lights a cigarette and waves it in his hand for effect. “Unbiased opinion, secondary source, untrained ear–” You don’t give him the smile he’s looking for. “–my muse.”

You chuckle sardonically, repeating his words syllable by syllable, “My muse.”

He exhales smoke, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards as you also fight off an amused grin. He looks handsome like this; with his under eyes slightly drawn out and his hair free of gel. You would’ve told him so if not George being in the room.

“Exactly, love.” He nods.

You want to argue that you can’t be his muse or unbiased opinion; you work for him. Your paychecks have his full legal name scribbled at the bottom of the slip. You get him coffee and equipment and pick up his dry cleaning on days he just wants to spite you. But you don't say this–you just watch him watch you.

Turning back, George shakes his head. “Christ.” 

You sigh as they both become preoccupied with the soundboard again. In metaphorically defeat, you drop your purse back on the couch.

+

The untrustworthy coffee machine is your safe haven. You would rather venture into the break room of the studio, under the flickering lights and all, than sit in solitude and listen to Matty and George mess about for another minute. Dragging your feet to the counter, you begin to make a pot. If anything, the coffee-making is for your sanity.

While flicking on the power button, you go over grocery lists, bills, and the dinner reservation you need to cancel for Matty tomorrow.

You watch the dingy pot begin to fill right as the door to the break room creaks open. 

You whip around to see George.

You raise your brow at his uncharacteristic leave. “Hi?”

He wanders into the break room like he’s unsure of himself. His grey sweats hang from his hips and you can make out a flash of skin from when he stretches his arms and his hoodie rides up because of it.

Your face warms.

George looks good. George looks really good. 

“I was going to piss,” He says like he's explaining his departure from the studio. “Then I saw you.” 

“Ah,” You rub your hands over your eyes in a half-hearted attempt to stop your gaze from wandering down to his waistband. “Piss break.”

He laughs and then glances at the brewing pot. His brow furrows: “Fulfilling your unsolicited desire to get coffee?”

“Can’t help it,” You mutter, agitated and sore. “It’s like I have fucking cabin fever or something.”

He nods but then eyes you carefully. You suddenly grow self-conscious over your appearance. Your makeup is bound to be smeared by your constant rubbing and you would say you’re in desperate need of an everything shower, but his eyes still skirt over you slowly–like he’s unapologetically checking you out.

Then he glances at his watch and you can breathe again. 

“Maybe you should go home,” He says sympathetically in a way that has you shaking your head. Then in reference to Matty adds, “He’ll get over it.” 

“Not at this point,” You huff a laugh, craning your neck to stare up at him directly. “I’m no quitter, George.”

A brief pause.

His eyes give you the up-down again. “I believe it.” 

Coffee filters loudly to make up the silence between the two of you. 

“Well,” You say, switching off the machine and gathering three cups in hopes of looking busy. “I hope you have a great piss.”

He chuckles wryly. “I’ll try my best.” 

You shake your head when he leaves, pouring questionable brew into styrofoam cups and muttering a string of “Fuck me”’s.

+

The coffee was left untouched by Matty and you know he’s purposefully ignoring it just to irritate you. George takes occasional sips from the small cup if only to humor you. 

Your eyes are closed by this point; listening to every word, pitch, and musical texture there is drone from the speakers of this godforsaken studio. 

“Shit,” Matty curses after the demo nears an end. “Let’s scrap it–Deal with it later.”

“Later is now.” George bites back. 

You hear a click and the track falls silent.

“Then, fuck,” Matty’s frustrated laugh rings out. “I don’t know. Maybe we need to try something new.”

For a moment, there’s silence in the room. Pure, unfiltered silence that makes your chest swell with satisfaction and gives your budding headache momentarily relief.

Wait. 

Your brow quirks up in confusion. Raising your head from the cushion you open your eyes slowly. When you see the joints in their hands, you roll your eyes so far back it aches.

“You’re joking,” You mumble, tucking your knees to your chest as you nestle further into the couch. “I’ll never get to leave.” 

“It’s called the creative process, love,” Matty quips without turning around. 

George stretches to pass you the poorly rolled blunt. “Don’t want you to feel left out.”

You accept it begrudgingly, pouting at his slightly facetious expression until he swivels back to the soundboard and you’re left blinking dully at their backs. You lightly suck air through it and then rest your head on the back cushion. 

The demo is being played over again and they bicker when it comes to the last section of notes. 

Another puff. You’re going stir-crazy. 

You watch the clock on the wall until your eyes burn and the ticking begins to sound like the song that’s being blasted through the speakers. 

“The hell am I doing,” You mumble to yourself. You brush your wrinkled clothes down and fix your hair before clearing your throat. “Can I do something other than watch you roll joints and bicker? Be helpful?”

They turn to eye you carefully, finally acknowledging your frustration. 

The corners of Matty’s mouth fight to twist into a smile and you glower at him–always taking the piss out of you when you get like this.  

“What?” You snap.

“Wanna be helpful?” Matty asks.  

George glances over, saying his name as a warning for whatever he might say next. Matty doesn’t acknowledge it, still looking you up and down with a familiar glint in his eye. 

He chuckles, “I know how you can be helpful.”

You grow silent, eyes narrowing and flicking between the two, feeling like you’re being left out on a joke.  

George sighs and shakes his head. “God, you’re a twat.”

“How?” You question, still mildly confused about what exactly he’s implying.

Because he couldn’t be implying that. And if he even is, you’ve never done anything in the studio. With someone like George there. You’re disbelieving; you want to draw it out of him, make him say it. “How can I?”

Matty taps his right thigh. “Take a seat.”

He absolutely could be implying that.

Your jaw hangs open for a second. 

But then, wanting to spite and wipe the shit-eating grin off his face, you wander over to him. Plunking down on his thigh, Matty spins you back into his chair, pressing you against the desk and his chest while he goes back to fiddling with buttons like this isn’t out of the ordinary.

Straddling your employer’s thigh definitely violates all codes of ethics. But none of them feel as entertaining as sitting in Matty's lap.

You try to share a look with George from beside you but he avoids your eyes, instead muttering, “Let’s get back to it, then.”

+

You’re flushed against Matty by the time they’ve moved on from the last demo. Now, they’ve moved onto the particulars and you’re growing a different type of frustrated. 

When Matty talks his breath courses down your neck and makes you feel warm in every way possible. You’re fighting the urge to nestle into him, bury yourself in his neck and be closer to him–until your face grows unbearably warm and you become embarrassed about how just sitting on his lap is drives to this point.

Because this is all a game to him. And you play into it perfectly every time he beckons you.

But George–

George can’t even look at you while you’re on top of Matty; avoiding your eyes altogether and talking brashly to his bandmate like you’re not even there. And you can’t help but subconsciously long for his attention again. Whatever that looked like before–however he was looking at you in the break room.

Matty brushes his hand behind your neck before tsking: “It’s rude to stare, you know.”

You avert your eyes from George.

“While you’re in my lap, too,” He scolds quietly.

He chuckles at the reaction, making shivers travel down your body. 

You shift on his thigh, your body growing intolerant of the compromising position he has you in. You grab onto his arm that holds you at the waist, dragging your nails across his forearm. 

“I’m still your favorite,” His lips find the crest of your ear again to murmur. “Right, babe?”

You bite your lip to silence a whine as his fingers toy with the hem of your skirt. Watching his fingers go lower until your mind starts to cloud.

“You–” You breathe out sharply, brow furrowing as you struggle to not yell at him. “–were never my favorite.”

His laugh even sends chills down your spine and you lean into him, pressing yourself against him in an effort to get any relief for the pooling heat in your stomach. 

“Stop fucking around,” George mumbles more to Matty than to you.

You watch him fiddle with the amp set up beside the desk; you can’t tell if he’s actually unhappy with the sound system they’ve been using for the past ten hours with no complaint or if he’s looking for any reason not to look at you. 

“I’m completely present,” Matty insists, removing his arm from your waist to make an example of being hands-free. “But she can’t help it; I think she has a crush on you.”

You sit up straight at the accusation but find that you have no reason to be embarrassed because Matty’s right–you are in another man’s lap. He toys with the tip of your chin as you do your best to sneer at him.

George glances at you quickly and your cheeks burn. 

“Matt,” He sighs. “Don’t be a dick.”

“’m serious,” Matty defends, looking at your poker face expression you hope comes across as disinterested. You may be sitting in his lap but you’re unbothered by all of it. You’re cool, you’re collected, and you definitely won’t give him the reaction he’s looking for– “Bet she thinks about you fucking her all the time.”

Fuck him. Absolutely fuck him. 

You shift your hips at the thought and roll them against his thigh. His expression remains the same. If not for a sly smirk at your physical reaction because it was a reaction nonetheless.

“Is it true? Think of our George like that?” He teases, tapping a finger against your thigh. “That's so naughty.” 

Heat spreads between your legs and the tips of George's ears turn crimson. 

But now, you can’t help but picture what George would look like when he’s in you. How he would sound, where he would put his hands while he's fucking you. And soon you’re moving against Matty in a way that you wouldn’t have fathomed an hour ago.

“Thoughts?”

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

You blink at Matty. “About what?”

“The song,” He says.

You pause, staring at George and his slightly more readable expression as his eyes wander down to your thighs and the way they’re glued to Matty’s. Watching carefully as Matty slips his hand into your skirt to swipe his finger under the elastic band.  

“It’s nice, yeah,” You reply, gasping sharply when Matty prods at your folds. Your eyes flick back to George and he's not looking away this time. You whine when his finger teases over your clit. Arching back into Matty, you mumble through half-lids, “I fucking love it.”

His finger circles in ragged motions, making you jerk into him at an unrhythmic pace that has you uncomfortably screwing your eyes shut in frustration and grabbing him by the arm: “Matty.”

He smirks, knowingly. “Yeah, babe?”

“You're–” You sigh. “You're trying to be annoying.”

He barks a laugh at this, slipping his hand out of your underwear to give you a gentle slap on the thigh.

“Bein' so ungrateful.”

You mewl at the loss of friction but are too proud to beg for it. Your eyes wander back to George and his stiffened stature as he watches you with a slack jaw.

“Grab me that mic, yeah?” Matty says to you as your gaze lowers to George's lap. Sighing, he grabs your chin to redirect your line of sight. “Right over there.”

Right over there happens to be on the other side where George sits. Without thinking too much about it, you’re getting up from Matty's lap and leaning over George to reach it.

You don’t so much apologize for the reach before looking up at him.

“Need anything?” You prod.

His eyes run over you; his gaze dropping down to your disheveled skirt before traveling up to your blown-out expression. You plead with him through your eyes, glancing down to his lap to stare at the bulge in his sweatpants.

“Fuck it,” George exhales, pausing the track with one hand and beckoning you with the other. “C'mere.”

He holds your hand while guiding you on top to straddle him, mumbling in your ear something along the lines of you being a ‘minx’ as you settle in his lap. While your hands go straight to the neckline of his jumper, his go straight to your cunt.

Slipping his fingers past the material, you gasp into his shoulder, breathing out a pitchy ‘oh god’ as he’s quick to work against you.

“Good?” He says, making tight circles around your clit. Then to tease his bandmate, chides, “Better?”

Matty rolls his eyes. "Oh, fuck off."

Numbly, you nod into him, rolling against his fingers as he nips at your neck. Your fingers etch into his neckline, clutching the material like you're desperate to cling to him as he prods at your bundle of nerves.

“Are you going to fuck me?” You ask brashly, through ragged breaths.

You're tired of waiting; you've made it clear for the past three hours.

His chuckle is low against your ear. “Would you like that, sweet girl?”

You assure him you would through hurried moans and shifting your hips against him as he pulls the thin fabric of your underwear to the side. Letting him kiss down the side of your neck, you turn to look at Matty.

He stares at you through parted lips as he watches you get off with his best mate. He gives you a wink before he fishes for some packing paper.

“This alright?” George asks, guiding the tip of his cock into you.

“Yeah,” Your lips are on the cusp of his ear as he does, splitting in two when he pokes at your entrance. “Yes, yes.”

Matty busies himself by rolling another joint, only peering up to watch you sink onto George’s cock. 

A loud moan rips through you, prompting Matty to quip: “Everything alright, love?”

“Fuck off,” You repeat his words back to him through gritted teeth.

He chuckles. “Ever the professional.”

You don't care for his banter right now. Your mind is cloudy and the only thing you can focus on is George's grip on you as the way he raises your hips up to fuck into you.

“You’re huge,” You whine into his ear without thinking too much about it. 

His fingers dig into your waist as you wrap your arms around him. 

“'Told me you weren't a quitter," He mumbles though you can practically hear the smirk threatening to break on his face.

You watch your cunt spread around his cock, over and over again until everything feels white-hot and is searing through your body.

He stills his hands, making you hiss as you let him stretch you out fully. You begin to protest the lack of movement, shifting your hips forward until you whimper at the intensity of it all. Ignoring it, you lift your hips off him again. If George wants you to ride him you will.

But then he slaps your thigh. “Bend over.”

He wraps his arm around you to situate you as you look around the studio. Looking for a place where you could bend over in a practical manner. You furrow your brow, a choked sob buried in your throat as the ache between your legs grows more intense with every passing second of no one touching you.

"Need to be told everything?" George teases, turning you around to push your lower back down into the desk. Bend over meaning here, you think as you rest your burning cheek against the counter. He pushes his hips back into you with a groan. "Bein' so patient."

Patient, patient, patient.

You groan into the desk. You don’t want to be patient anymore.

“Shit.” You hiss as you feel your walls tug onto him greedily. "Please, please, please."

Matty's laugh ringing out makes you tilt your gaze over to him. Smoking surrounds him as he toys with one button on the soundboard (perhaps mockingly) by rolling it on the tip of his finger.

You whine, dipping your head down again as George's hips snap against yours roughly.

Matty whistles, lowly. "Soundin' a little pathetic, love."

The edge of the table is malleable in your grip. You gape at Matty who looks at you with interest. You plead for him with your eyes.

“Matty.”

“Yeah, babe?”

Your nails dig into the wood. “Need you.”

He hums like he's considering. "Need me?"

You don't respond; instead, you chant a chorus of 'please' to George as he grazes that one spot inside you. It makes your eyes roll back and gasp into your hand until you're blinking repeatedly in an effort to see straight.

Only then, Matty's convinced.

He makes a show out of unbuttoning his pants and pushing down the elastic band of his boxers but you can barely see straight as you bobble forward. 

You can make out him pulling out his cock, stroking himself a few times while peering down at your submissive state. You think he’s going to make you beg for him and you almost sigh in frustration at the thought because you really don’t have the energy for that right now. 

But he just grins at you and says, “Open up.”

And you do. 

When he juts his hips into your mouth, you’re steadying yourself with one hand and you’re feeling up his thigh with the other. He busies himself with your hair, tugging it forward roughly until your lips reach the base of his cock.

"My girl," Matty sighs as you hallow your cheeks around him. "My girl is so helpful–isn't she?"

George's hand presses down to your middle back–maybe in agreement with what Matty said–as your name falls from his lips.

"Gonna let me come in your mouth?" Matty muses while gathering a fist of your hair in his hand. His hips stutter, jerking back when he feels you moan around him. "Fuck, you always take it so well."

Your lips grow numb just as you feel your body build to a climax. You know George is close with the way he's grabbing at your hips as he plows into you. Your stomach coils as you push your hips into him–wanting him to finish, wanting Matty to finish as you work against them.

Matty's grip on your hair lifts you up so you can see him. His teasing smirk is vacant, just watching your expression as his mouth forms an o shape and he's bringing you roughly down on his cock until he's coming in your mouth.

Swollen and raw, you swallow (because you always do).

When you come you're arching into George and then pulling your hips away from him as you grapple with the sensitivity bundling in your core. His hand falls between your legs as you jerk against him.

His thrusts turn sloppy, lazily bucking into you until he's flushed against your ass and spilling into you. You breathe his name repeatedly as your body comes down; pushing up from the desk you move to stand, leaning back against George.

And then his hand disappears from in between your legs and he's pulling up your panties that stretched around your thighs. You let him mess with your skirt until he's pulling it down your ass and brushing down the material like he's concerned with making you appear decent.

Amused and out of breath, you stare at him as he fumbles with the material of his sweats. Shifting your gaze, you watch Matty–whose hair is even more disheveled now–tuck himself back into his pants.

His eyes catch yours and you expect him to beckon you back to him with the wave of his hand. Matty gives you a lopsided smile and your heart twinges.

"One more thing, babe," He says, fiddling with the buttons of his trousers.

You realize George's come is soaking through your underwear and running down your inner thigh when you start to wander over to Matty.

Squeezing your legs together, you burn hot.

"Coffee," Matty finally says and you blankly stare at him. He grins, and you can't find it in yourself to despise him for it. Not ever. "Hot coffee would be great right now."

#matty healy x reader #matty healy imagine #matty healy smut #george daniel x reader #george daniel smut #george daniel imagine #the 1975 imagines #*my writing #i listened to savior complex on repeat while editing what does that say about me #anyway this is my official resignation letter as a smut writer #i want to be a fluff and angst writer i can't handle the p*rn life anymore

[petaltexturedskies]

Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken. I don't see anything objectively. I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist. When I speak passionately, that's when I'm least to be trusted. It's very sad, really: all my life, I've been praised for my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight. In the end, they're wasted. I never see myself.

Louise Glück, from The Untrustworthy Speaker

#louise glück

[yearningaces]

Coming in With another Asexual reader story but this time something different:D

It had been a fun day, both you and Helios had wandered to the next town over, taking in the different restaurants and small shops, getting worn out soon after and making the long drive home. But the driving was always the most fun. Helios had his own star cruiser after all, being a creature from off world and from a more space faring species, he had little things like that.

Though he'd swear up and down that the autopilot was a scam and untrustworthy... That meant you could lounge either in the small sleeping pod with the side open so you could still see and speak with Helios as he piloted, and appreciate the otherworldly image of him.

Deep purple skin, darker runes running along both sets of arms up to his neck. His back legs always made you think of a rabbit but he swore they resembled the Ka'hnr from his home world. An apex predator apparently.

Even his two sets of eyes always caught your attention, a color you couldn't name but to you it seemed blue... Then again there are many colors humans can't see.

You watched his feather tipped tail flicking lazily as he sat at the pilots seat, watching the sky ahead and passing by another flock of birds.

"Heli?" You finally called out after some time, dropping from the sleeping pod and settling in the co-pilot seat you usually were in.

Helios ear twitches towards you as his attention refocuses. "Yes, galaxy?" His voice was as soft as always, focused and gentle.

You ponder for a moment, trying to understand what exactly you had in mind and settling on something you've been thinking about for a while. "I'm trying to decide if there's a difference because of species, or mentality between us." The remark is a warning the conversation might be serious, or humerus. Such conversations tended to be.

As such, you saw Helios's ears both perk up, his tail curling upwards in attention, inquisitively listening to your words. "What exactly would that be this time?"

"You know as far as relationships go along humans, I'm a bit of an outlier in some aspects."

Your words are sincere enough that it gives Helios a pause. To him, you're the only human if not creature he's ever been with, so he's not quite certain to your meaning. "My galaxy, I'm not understanding completely. Whatever differences you notice I'm unaware of but adore you exactly as you are."

And it's just genuine enough to make your cheeks heat up just slightly. "Sweet words, but there really isn't anything missing in your eyes?"

His maw shakes 'no' innocently. "What would I be missing when you are right here?"

"Intercourse?" You supply, something neither of you have done, attempted, or even spoken of.

Helios four eyes blink slowly and he waits a few moments. "Enter what?"

...

"Sex."

"Is that like a food?"

"Food?"

"Yeah, like the human food, 'Sneks'."

"... Snacks?"

"Yeah! Those!"

"Snacks doesn't sound at all like sex?"

"Says the native human speaker."

That earns you a small chuckle. "Fair enough, but you don't know what that is? You know the reproduction process? Most humans see it as vital to a relationship or life." Your explanatory tone drops into something almost bitter, and it doesn't miss Helios attention for a moment.

"So what?" He begins, trying to both lighten the mood and understand exactly what's going on. "I can't think of anything else I'd want to do with you than what we do ... Well, that's a lie. Eventually we're going to have our bonding ceremony and be a bonded pair -and that I'm looking forward to. Maybe taking in a few Starspecks to raise. You know, the little lights that fall from stars? That's all I want with you."

It takes a few moments for his words to register in your mind. "Really? You don't think I'm like... Withholding-?"

Before you can finish he interrupts gently, his lower left arm reaching out to grab yours. "Really. Besides I think I understand what you're referencing and it's something that -while not exclusive to your planet- isn't something every species deals with. I believe the human term for my sort is 'reproduces asexually' and that's if we reproduce at all. Young ones are rare. I'd much prefer Starspecks."

You grip his hand tighter. The realization settling in and leaving you so relaxed and comfortable. You'd never allow yourself to be pressured into that uncomfortable situation but it felt so much better knowing Helios was the same as you, in his own way.

"Would that be alright?" He asks at your silence.

"Yeah." Your voice is quiet enough for him to pull your seat closer so he can wrap both of his left arms wrap around you as you continue. "Yeah, that's alright with me."

#letters of yearning #x reader #monster boyfriend #monster romance #gender neutral reader #monster x reader #asexual #asexual reader #alien x human #alien x reader

[qqueenofhades]

Been busy this week and haven't really been keeping up on all the news. Do we want Mr. Kevin gone or not? I saw the Republicans voted to remove him and Democrats voted to keep him. Feel like that makes things pretty clear but I just have no idea what all is going on

Oh no, the Democrats voted to remove him. The first measure on the floor was whether to open the debate on removing the Speaker, or to table/kill it. 206 Republicans voted to kill the motion, but 10 crazies + all Democrats voted to continue it. That means they have to have the debate on whether to remove him and then another vote. If the same 10 crazies + all Democrats vote for his removal, Kevin will be Dunzo.

Then, of course, the House has to elect a NEW speaker. This may, uh. Take a really long time. I'm still rooting for Jeffries to pull it out somehow, but it would also be hysterical if there were like 30 rounds, they put McCarthy back in, and then vacated him again in like a week. Kevin is an untrustworthy, spineless piece of shit who has appeased Trump, thrown Ukraine under the bus, constantly stabbed Democrats in the back, lied his ass off, and otherwise been a total disaster who can't count votes, whip his caucus, pass basic and crucial legislation, or otherwise do the job. There's no reason for the Democrats to support him out of some idea that the next guy "might be worse," especially since there's pretty much no way the Republican caucus will agree on a new GOP candidate. So shoot your shot, show Kevin that he's going to pay for it by constantly relying on Democrats to bail him out, and see what happens.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts

[saphira5]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x 141 Reader "Traitor aftermath" Good Version

"When y/n arrived at the shadows company base, y/n went straight to see commander Graves. Y/n and Graves had a plan to expose General Shepard. Graves had tried to go to the 141 for help but Shepard had deemed them mercenary's and untrustworthy people. So, Graves had come to y/n for help, y/n knew Graves wasn't what Shepard had made him or his shadows to be. Graves knew he was going to sell missiles to Al-Qatala, Graves wants to stop him before he sold the missiles. The shadow's and him were done fighting for Shepard when they had found out what he was doing. But Shepard wasn't done with them. Threating their families and friends, making all the shadows stay loyal. Y/n knew what you had to do but the cost would be y/n life. But y/n was willing to pay with your life. "

Y/n was on the ground looking up at the clear blue sky.

No clouds in site, your blood pooling around y/n. Y/n takes very shallow breaths, blood beginning to suffocate y/n. The 141 had arrived with fire and anger in their eyes, y/n had kidnapped Laswell's wife to lure the 141 to the shadow's base.

When they arrived Graves would play on the speaker, General Shepard talking to Al-Qatala about the price of the missiles.

Y/n was slowing losing conciseness, when y/n hears a bunch of footsteps.

Y/n looks left and sees Graves and the shadow's walking side by side with the 141.

Y/n smiled, it has what y/n had wanted, Graves wasn't a bad person he wanted to do right but Shepard made him, and his team look like a foxes, untrustworthy, shifty and sly. But Graves and his shadow company were nothing but German Shepards, loyal to the bitter end.

Y/n turns your head back to the sky, y/n closes your eyes then y/n feels yourself getting lifted up a bit.

Y/n can hear cry's, y/n just couldn't tell who, but before y/n died you had whispered out.

"I love you all".

#task force 141 #141 x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader

[strykerlancer]

Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken. I don’t see anything objectively. I know myself; I’ve learned to hear like a psychiatrist. When I speak passionately, that’s when I’m least to be trusted. It’s very sad, really: all my life, I’ve been praised for my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight. In the end, they’re wasted. I never see myself.

— Louise Glück, from “The Untrustworthy Speaker.”

#Louise Glück #words #literature #poetry #quotes #out of my collection #lit #The Untrustworthy Speaker #***

[metamorphesque]

poetry recommendations for december

The Untrustworthy Speaker by Louise Glück

Ashes and Blossoms by Faiz Ahmad Faiz

Raw With Love by Charles Bukowski

Dear [ ] by Nick Lantz

The Language of the Birds by Richard Siken

A Prayer by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Snowdrops by Louise Glück

The Road Away by Kim Sowol

From June to December: Summer Villanelle by Wendy Cope

“After My Brother's Death, I Reflect on the Iliad,” by Elisa Gonzalez

Letter to a Lost Friend by Barbara Hamby

buy me a coffee

#literature #poetry #poems #poetry recs #book recs #december #translated literature #classic literature #dark academia #romantic academia #light academia #poem

[llovelymoonn]

louise glück ararat: "the untrustworthy speaker"

kofi

#louise gluck #louise glück #ararat #the untrustworthy speaker

[calvinandhobbes]

Louise Glück, “The Untrustworthy Speaker”

#read this poem this morning and my mind started spinning like crazyyyyy #louis de pointe du lac #interview with the vampire #iwtvedit #comparatives #mine

[elena-mayfair]

Will you help me?

Paring: Bruce Wayne x f!reader, Batman x f!reader Genre: Thriller, mystery, horror, slow burn Warnings: rating T+/M, blood and gore, violence, strong language, themes of depression and suicide Summary: When in distress seek help from friends. But what if friends have proven to be untrustworthy? What if there is no one to turn to for help? How to establish new relationships? Sometimes all it takes is one simple question: will you help me? Word count: 8k Note: Gifs are not mine, credit to the authors.

Chapter one: Bright future, dark city Chapter two: Curious people Chapter three: Madness and old friends Chapter four: I am innocent

***

"Do you like scars? Do scars make the man?," you hummed under your breath the lyrics of the song playing through the speakers as you stared in the mirror at the deep cut healing on your arm. Four stitches, seemingly not much and yet the scar would become a sure reminder of the day you almost drowned. After two weeks, the wound had almost healed, leaving a pale red thin line decorated with dots on the sides where the stitches had been just a few days ago. Two weeks were enough to heal the surface wounds. For the purple-green bruise that painfully scored your body to disappear almost completely, for the brown scab to fall off showing softly pink flesh, for the number of pain pills you took every day to decrease from eight to two. Two weeks, enough time to heal the wounds on your body, enough time to recover, enough time for rest and regeneration, time which you spent locked up in your apartment isolated from everyone…time not nearly enough to heal the wounds that were not visible at first glance.

"There are still good people in this world," you repeated each day as you replayed the events of that evening over and over again, trying to push them out of your mind. The indifferent look in the rearview mirror, the car speeding through the city, the cold metal touch on your forehead, the two wrecked cars, the creepy grin, the gunshots, the maniacal laughter…

Indifference…

"There are still good people in this world," you insisted, clenching your eyes as if that would somehow help push the images away. Black rapid water, screeching tires, impact, yanking, pain, cold, panic, water rising, horror…

Fear…

"There are still good people in this world," you repeated once again, forcefully pushing away the recurring images. There was Lucius Fox, who, in a compassionate and understanding email, assured you that all medical expenses were covered by insurance provided by the company. Lucius Fox, who assured you that you don't have to worry about your job or your place in the company, and you are to take as much sick leave as necessary. Lucius Fox, who personally signed a card wishing you a quick recovery that was attached to a small package delivered by a courier, containing a new phone. "'With wishes for a swift recovery, from the company,'" not many words and yet a faint smile appeared on your face.

"Yes…there are good people in the world…" such as your colleagues at work who, despite knowing each other for a relatively short time, sent you a sincere and kind message. Such as the policewoman who made sure you arrived home safely by escorting you to your door. Such as the paramedics who, seeing your fear and stubbornness in refusing to be taken to the hospital, showed great understanding and kindness in attending to your wounds at home. Such as the doctor who visited you twice at your home. Such as the Chinese food delivery guy who knocked on your door every other day…such as….

Kindness…a concerned look, a warm tone, a gentle assistance when your legs refused to obey you, a kind smile…Nightwing.

Hope…the light shining in the darkness of the water, the muffled explosion heralding rescue, the strong sure grip on your body, the life he took from his lips to give to you…Batman.

Support…the phone call answered in the middle of the night when you woke up from a nightmare drenched in sweat, the words of reassurance and comfort spoken each time when fear rose within you all over again, the understanding and empathy when you refused to recount your experiences in detail, the quiet empathy when he visited you at home time and again whenever you had no strength to go out…Jonathan Crane.

Over the past two weeks, Professor Crane proved to be your greatest support and your only contact with the outside world. The initial information about the car accident was enough to swap visits at his office for home visits. The suggestion came from him, he argued that if you felt up to it would be advisable not to interrupt the therapy process you had started. He explained that especially now, in a situation of increased stress, your mind becomes more susceptible to negative thoughts and feelings. Initially, you refused. The idea of having a psychiatrist come to your home, your safe place, your oasis of peace, seemed wrong. You only accepted the suggestion of sedative medication, which was delivered to your home. You appreciated the gesture and understanding, simply going to the pharmacy seemed like a mission for which you did not have the strength. However, this situation only lasted for two days. The night before day three, you woke up terrified in the middle of the night certain that the Joker had found you. That he was sitting in your living room, turning a gun in his hand, that as soon as you came out of your bedroom you would see him, that wide creepy smile, hear his maniacal laughter, feel the bullet piercing your body. "Hello toots!" he will say, "did you really think you would get away with it! HA!" he will snarl, "did you really think that you can drive a car off the road and be done with me?! HA HA HA HA HA!" he will laugh as a fired bullet will pierce your stomach.

Fright paralyzed you completely making you unable to move from the bed. Fright so sure of his presence. Horror fueled by the awareness of your complete loneliness, the absence of anyone you could call, anyone who could come, anyone you could turn to for help, you were alone. Not thinking much, you dialed the Professor's number, and to your surprise he answered. For an hour he talked to you on the phone, trying to calm you down and convince you to come out to the living room, but when that didn't help, he got in his car and drove to your home in the middle of the night.

***

~~Few days earlier~~

"You need to come to the door and open it," Professor Crane's voice echoed on the other side of the line, "I'm at the door."

"I can't…" you replied in a weak voice. Your heart pounded in your chest with each beat making it harder to breathe. Curled up against the bedroom wall, with your knees drawn to your chest, you stared at the door in horror, anxiously awaiting the moment when it would open to reveal the shiny gun metal.

"You have to…" Crane replied.

"He's there…" you whispered, "if I open the door… he is there… he will kill me…"

"Y/N think about it," Crane said in a calm controlled tone, "I know you are terrified. You are experiencing a panic attack. Your body is probably shaking, your pulse is accelerated, cold sweat is covering your skin," he listed the symptoms, "You are having a panic attack."

"But Joker…"

"Think," he interrupted you, "I know it's difficult at the moment but think for a second. If the Joker was actually in your apartment, would he wait for you to come out of your bedroom? If you didn't wake up, would he wait until morning? If he was really in your apartment, would he wait and risk you calling 911?"

"He could…"

"Y/N!" Crane raised his voice, "Do you think he wouldn't have heard our conversation through the door? Do you think if he heard it he wouldn't react?"

"He's insane…"

"Y/N open the door."

"I can't."

"Get up and open the door."

"I'm afraid…"

"Y/N!"

"I'm sorry…"

"Open the fucking door!" he shouted commandingly. It worked.

With your legs shaking, you slowly got up from the bed and cautiously opened the bedroom door, carefully looking out first, ready to close them immediately. The living room was empty, exactly as you had left it the previous evening. There was no sign of anyone's presence. No shoe marks on the floor, no furniture moved, no smell, no Joker.

"Y/N, are you there?" you heard on the phone which you still held tightly to your ear. You didn't answer, instead you headed for the front door behind which Crane was waiting.

"There's no one here…" you whispered in a weak voice, opening the door wide and looking at the Professor. He stood there, wearing a dark brown coat, looking at you intently. He, too, was pressing the phone to his ear. "There's no one here…" you repeated while your body shook again.

"Can I come in?"

You moved away from the door letting him in.

"It was all so real…" you tried to explain weakly. You leaned against the door and slid slowly to the floor. Adrenaline was leaving your body like air through a punctured balloon. "I, I was sure, I was convinced that he was here."

"The mind can be very decieving…" Crane looked around the apartment as if despite everything he wanted to make sure you were alone. He checked the other rooms, the bedroom, the bathroom, and for a moment even looked out the window, simultaneously making sure it was closed.

"I couldn't imagine it…" you argued in a half whisper, "it was too real."

"Traumatic experiences can trigger in a person anxiety levels so strong that imagination can seem real," Crane explained. He squatted in front of you and his green eyes looked straight into yours, "are you hurt?" he asked, "can you stand up?"

"I think so…" you nodded uncertainly then, grasping Crane's outstretched hand, you got up on your feet.

"Alright…" belaying you, Crane walked you over to the couch, turned on the soft lamp light, then sat down across from you and once again began to pierce you with his gaze, "Then now tell me, why would the Joker want to kill you? What exactly happened two weeks ago?"

And so you did. Two cups of tea and three hours later, Crane knew everything. Every little detail starting from the party at 44 Below, to your first encounter with Batman, to Joker's Arkham brakeout, ending up with Batman and Nightwing's rescuing you after you drove the car of the road. Every single feeling, every single thought, every single fear, fascination, emotion, thought. Every most trivial detail. You hid nothing, for the first time you were completely honest with him. With a flow of words, you poured out everything that was sitting inside you, and you had to admit that you felt damn good about it. Crane only listened. Sitting comfortably on the couch next to you, sipping tea, he did not interrupt, did not comment, only listened without taking his penetrating eyes off you.

"How are you feeling?" he finally asked when you finished the story.

"Good," you replied without hesitation, "really good…" you added at the sight of a smile on Crane's face, "but I'm afraid this intervention is going to tug hard on my wallet."

"Don't worry about that now. We're finally talking honestly, you finally lowered your guard enough to open up to me. Don't bother with trivial matters now."

"I needed this, I'll admit it. I needed to get it off my chest, and let's be honest, I don't have anyone to talk to. We've already established that. And the only person I considered a friend….well…. let's just say that I wasn't wrong for not trusting people."

"And yet you trusted me."

"That's different. My emotional exhibitionism is driven by pure selfishness and the need to throw out negative emotions. After what happened today, you might as well be a pizza delivery guy," you quipped.

"Would you also call a pizza delivery guy in the middle of the night paralyzed with fear?" he smirked.

"I guess not," you chuckled, "why did you come?"

"It's not unusual for a psychotherapist to respond to a crisis situation, even in the middle of the night," even though his words sounded serious and professional something completely different shone in his eyes. A mystery, a dangerous gleam, betraying something contrary to the spoken words.

"Thank you," you looked confidently into the cryptic green, "I didn't know what to do. I was afraid. You were…" you hesitated, "you were the first person I thought of," you lied hiding your embarrassment in your tea cup. He wasn't. But the person you thought of was not someone you could call in the middle of the night, even if you had the possibility to do so. "Why did I thought of him…." you rebuked yourself in your mind.

"Something is bothering you," Crane noticed.

"Many things bother me," you replied evasively.

"I thought we were over word games…"

"Because we are," you sighed in resignation, "forgive me. I guess that's my habit."

"If you want we can go back to standard questions like 'how do you feel about it', 'do you want to talk about it'," he smiled mischievously.

"No, thank you!" you denied immediately, "you don't even realize how annoying these questions are."

"So talk."

You took another sip of tea and gazed at the full moon rising against the black sky. A moon that involuntarily made you think of the Batman signal lighting up the night sky. The symbol of the Dark Knight, the protector of Gotham. The symbol of hope that there is someone in this world who cares.

"For the last two weeks I've been cooped up at home and I've been doing some reading…" you began, still staring at the sky outside the window, "colleagues recently joked that I have little chance of ever finding myself in the middle of a fight between Batman and Gotham's psychos. And yet here we are."

"Wrong place, wrong time."

"Possibly," you replied quietly, "But with spare time on my hands and a million questions in my head, for the past two weeks I've done nothing but read newspapers, archived posts, blogs, forums. How is it possible that I have never heard anything about this before?!" you threw a frustrated question, angrily looking into the green gleam, "how the fuck is that possible that I never ever heard anything about Batman, Nightwing, Robin, Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern, Green Arrow?! How?! It seems like it is fairly common knowledge! It seems that every big city has its own Batman! So tell me Professor, how come I never heard any of it?!" Crane answered nothing, clearly taken aback by your question, "Like dude can fucking fly! And it seems like this is the first time I ever heard about it!"

"I think you already have the answer to this rhetorical question," Crane stated.

"Something is missing…" you sighed heavily, "something is not right with me…" you tapped angrily with your finger on the side of your forehead, "something is not right in my head. I feel like I should know these things, and yet I don't. I feel like I'm missing part of my mind. Like there are gaps in there, missing pieces which I cannot find," your gaze met his again and hung on for longer than was polite, "Will you help me? Will you help me find the missing pieces?"

"I will," he replied without a moment's hesitation, "but it will require a different approach. If it is indeed as you think, if indeed some parts of your mind are blocked, it will not be enough to simply talk it through. I will expect you to be completely honest and trusting."

"I can do that."

"Good. Let's start from changing the dynamic of our relationship," he scooted closer to you, set his tea cup down on the table then extended his hand to you, "Jonathan," he smiled anticipating your reaction.

You only shook his hand with a smile on your face and relief in your heart certain that you did the right thing by telling him about your worries. Confident that you could count on his help.

***

"Hey isn't that the girl we rescued last time?!" Dick Grayson asked at the sight of the photo and personal file displayed on the Batcomputer screen. Dressed in sweatpants and a tight tank top with a towel hung around his neck and a water bottle in his hand, he was rubbing sweat from his forehead after intense training. His younger foster brother followed him closely step by step, exhaustion painting on his face. Tim was eager to work, to train, to improve his skills, and the years of practice Dick had had over him posed a satisfying challenge.

"The one who tried to drown Joker?" Tim asked standing behind Bruce's chair.

"Yup, the one!" Dick replied, "She got some fight in here! She would rather drove care of the road into the bay than get the Joker to his destination! That's impressive!"

"Is she a friend or foe?!" Tim inquired.

"I don't know yet," Bruce replied without taking his eyes off the monitor, "She works for me."

"What?!"

"How come?!"

"She works at Wayne Tech, we hired her less than two months ago," Bruce replied in a poised voice upon hearing their simultaneous question, "I've had the opportunity to talk to her a few times."

"And?"

"And I can't tell if she's really an innocent victim of circumstance or just a good con artist."

"Do you want me to keep an eye on her?" Tim asked, "I could keep tabs on her for a while, see where she goes, who she hangs out with, what she does after work."

"No, Tim," Bruce refused immediately, "if she is indeed a crook sooner or later she will reappear under not very favorable circumstances and then we will have grounds to be suspicious of her. For the time being, we must assume that she is innocent, as she claims. Besides, as Bruce Wayne, I will have the opportunity to keep an eye on her every day. And as Batman… I want to take on this case personally."

"But…" Dick tried to object yet Bruce didn't give him a chance.

"We have more important things to deal with," Bruce interrupted him by minimizing Y/N's photo, "another victim. Marc Phillips, age forty-five, pilot," a photo of a middle-aged brunet appeared on the computer screen.

"The pilot of the avionette from which the newlyweds jumped," Dick stated, quickly tracing with his eyes over the text on the screen.

"That's right," Bruce confirmed, "After the incident he was under the psychological observation by Professor Jonathan Crane, he stayed in the psychiatric ward of Elliot Memorial Hospital, from which he was released two days ago."

"What happened?" Tim asked unable to find an answer on the screen.

"He hung himself."

Silence fell in the cave as all three began to analyze the facts and the cause-and-effect sequence in their minds. Each of them knew that there was an element of strangeness in the previous victims, an element of the unusual and untold that connected them all. Suicide by hanging had nothing inexplicable about it.

"It doesn't make any sense," Dick began, "I mean it makes sense, but at the same time it doesn't make sense. Oh you know what I mean!"

"It doesn't fit the residual pattern we've had so far," Tim joined in, "the guy hung himself. There's a cause and a reason."

"I want you to inspect his apartment," Bruce informed, finally getting up from the computer and looking at them, " inspect his apartment, talk to the Elliot Memorial staff, and most importantly Professor Crane. His file is perfectly clean, which doesn't change the fact that we can't exclude him from the suspects list."

"What about you?"

"I have an interrogation to attend to."

***

Gotham by day was not much different from Gotham during the night. Thick rain clouds usually hung over the city effectively blocking the sun shrouding the city in a damp sheen. The wet streets and buildings reflected the city lights dressing the city in a veil of mysticism and secrecy. Walking through the city you didn't feel overwhelmed, quite the opposite. Despite the thick clouds in the sky, the brisk air from the bay allowed you to breathe fully, for the first time in weeks. For a moment you forgot where and for what purpose you were going, allowing yourself to once again admire the mysterious beauty of the city, marvel at the million lights and colors refracted in the droplets of water, gaze at the statues carved into the buildings' walls seemingly crying over the fate of the inhabitants, gargoyles lurking on the rooftops appearing to drool at the sight of their victims. The beauty and menace of the city seemed to clash with each other at every turn as if battling for dominance over the city and its citizens. Every alley seemed to hide a mystery, every street seemed to teem with secrets deeply hidden. Gotham was dangerous but also beautiful. For around the next corner, a frantic death could be waiting to herald the end of the adventure, or a laughing group of children in their innocence kicking a ball joyfully, a sign of goodness and purity that had to be protected.

Lost in thought, lost between delight and fear, you didn't notice when your feet led you to the First Gotham City Police District building. A building that was a perfect representation of the city itself. Modern style merged with age-old classics. The central part of the building wore the signs of the age, while the modern wings on the sides, although initially appearing incongruous with the rest, effectively brought the building into the 21st century. In the center of the tall clock tower a blue GCPD glowed, while gargoyles positioned on the sides seemed to keep a watchful eye on the surroundings.

The interior proved to be a perfect reflection of its exterior and an even more appropriate deepening of Gotham's atmosphere. Dark, stuffy, dusty, shrouded in a yellowish light that seemed too dim to meet health and safety requirements. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air ignoring more regulations and laws. On old-fashioned cluttered desks stood modern computers bearing the Wayne Tech logo bringing an element of modernity to the age-old interior. From an office nearby, raised voices could be heard indicating a confrontation behind closed doors. A little farther behind bars, several criminals were taunting the cops, doing their worst to provoke them. Someone reported a theft, someone else a missing person, another a beating. Fragments of conversations between police officers drew a picture of deep-rooted crime.

"I'm telling you Frank, Maroni will go to war with Falcone! It's only a matter of time!" said one.

"Don't even joke like that! We don't need a gang war now when the Joker has escaped from Arkham!" countered the other.

"He didn't escape, he got busted out."

"By two chicks! Can you imagine?"

"Yeah, trust me, I can," the man laughed rubbishly, "chick who has the balls to bust Joker out of the Asylum must have some imagination if you know what I mean."

"Damnn man, you are sick!"

You shuddered at their words as if something disgusting had touched your skin. "What a pig," you thought and headed for the reception desk behind which a young policewoman was drowning in paperwork.

"Excuse me," you snapped her out of her work, "My name is Y/N Y/L/N, I was supposed to report to the police station to provide a statement."

"Y/N Y/L/N," the policewoman lifted her gaze from above the documents and looked at you with a gentle smile, "yes, yes…Arkham case…" she said more to herself while searching the computer for information, "Commissioner Gordon is in his office waiting for you. Please follow me," she stated and gestured you deeper into the building.

The commissioner's office situated on a small rise in the central part of the police station towered above everything as if emphasizing his presence and authority. A yellowish light shone through the glass walls from within, gently illuminating the entire precinct, bringing to your mind a faint ray of hope breaking through the darkness and gloom. Inside, the office was as messy and hazy as the entire post. Despite the large centrally located windows, it seemed murky and tight. The central part brightly lit contrasted so much with the black corners hidden in shadow. Thick cigarette smoke drifted against the yellow warm light. Cigarette butts spilled out of an ashtray that fought for its place on the desk with coffee cups and stacks of documents and folders. Stacks of files were crammed on shelves and in boxes piled against the wall and on the floor around the desk even more than everything else so far informing you of the scale of crime in Gotham. The commissioner sat behind his desk bent over the files with a cigarette hanging at his lips as if not paying attention to his surroundings.

"Commissioner Gordon," the policewoman began.

"I told you I am busy," Gordon muttered under his breath, "if nothing is burning or exploding Bullock can handle it."

"Miss Y/L/N to see you, Commissioner," she finished, announcing your presence forcing the commissioner to raise his eyes from over his papers and interrupt his work.

"Thank you, Alice," he turned to the policewoman changing his tone of voice, "find Bullock and send him to me please," he instructed, "Miss Y/L/N please sit down," he turned to you pointing to a chair on the other side of the desk.

You took the seat opposite him, and although you tried very hard to remain calm and composed you were sure that Gordon clearly saw nerves and uncertainty in your movements. You involuntarily looked around the room wanting to register every little detail, returning your gaze again and again to the dark corners shrouded in shadow.

"Would you like something to drink?" Gordon asked politely, "the coffee is dreadful but it gets the job done."

"No, thank you," you replied just as kindly.

"I see you're feeling better now," Gordon continued, "I'm glad, and thank you for showing up."

"Did I have a choice?" you asked without thinking, momentarily regretting not biting your tongue.

"We brought you in to give a statement, you are not under suspicion in any way," Gordon explained, "nor do we have any grounds to interrogate you against your will."

"So if I want I can leave and refuse to testify?" since you had already started there was no point in backing out.

"You can," Gordon confirmed, "but I think it would look very suspicious. Would you agree with me?"

"I think you're right," you admitted quietly.

The door opened abruptly and a second man entered the office. Medium height with a heavier physique, another picture of contrast and clash of two contradictions. His lengthy hair and several days of facial stubble expressed nonchalance and neglect, yet his suit blazer, shirt and tie showed professionalism and elegance.

"Miss Y/L/N, my partner, Detective Bullock," Gordon introduced the man.

"Right, so how was it with the Joker and his girlfriend," Bullock leaned against the glass wall of the office and asked directly, "We know you helped him escape, we know you were the driver of the car the Joker used to escape," Bullock didn't plan to play nice.

"I... it's not quite like that…" you began.

"During the escape, you broke more than a dozen laws, caused two accidents, and damage to public property," Bullock listed, "three people are in the hospital of which one is in serious condition and fighting for life."

"I'm sorry…" you cringed at the sound of your own words, knowing very well how pathetic that sounded.

"Sorry ain't gonna cover that sweetheart! You gotta work with us here."

"It's not like I had any choice…" you tried to defend quietly.

"We can book you for complicity and charge you with a fine," he added.

"And what about the assumption of innocence?" you looked at Bullock defiantly.

"It went to shit the moment you pressed on the gas."

"Miss Y/L/N, please tell us how it happened that you were dragged into this situation," Gordon interjected into the conversation, adopting the role of a good cop, "everything, with details."

"I didn't know," you looked at him trying to sound as sincere as you could, "I had no idea. I was asked by a friend to pick up her boyfriend, who was returning from a short vacation. I had no reason not to agree."

"Dr. Harleen Quinzel," Gordon inserted.

"That's right," you confirmed, seeing no point in hiding her identity.

"How long have you known each other?"

"Most of our lives," you replied, "we grew up together, went to school together, we used to be inseparable. Then, life happened and we just each went our separate ways. Harleen moved out to Gotham and I stayed in my hometown with my family and contact just stopped."

"And yet you decided to renew it," Gordon continued.

"I recently moved to Gotham, I don't know anyone here, I thought it was a good opportunity to renew an old friendship."

"Why did you move to Gotham?" Bullock cut in.

"For work."

"As a Joker's getaway driver?"

"No!" you denied angrily, "As an engineer at Wayne Enterprises. You can check it out. I was hired at Wayne Tech as an engineer. Lucius Fox is my direct supervisor."

"We know," Gordon stated, "what was happening on the eve of the Joker's escape? You were seen at 44 Below." A cold shiver ran down your spine when you realized how bad it all looked.

"I met Harleen for the first time in years," you began to explain, "I don't know the city very well yet, so I decided to rely on her."

"Didn't it seem suspicious to you that you were going to a club beneath a club?"

"She said her boyfriend knew the owner and that it was a VIP club," you replied, "I had no reason not to trust her."

"And then? Nothing seemed suspicious to you?"

"At times, sure," you admitted, "strange types watching us, drinks appearing out of nowhere, it was unusual, but I was happy to spend time with my friend, I didn't want to look like a freak, and also alcohol did its job."

"Please continue the story," Gordon encouraged.

"Everything was pretty normal until we were invited to the owner's office," you continued, and you had to admit to yourself that now as you were telling the story out loud in front of the cops, it sounded very bad, "Harleen called him Ozzy, a short corpulent man. There was another one, big and stocky, Harleen seemed to know him," you recalled from memory, "Butch, she called him Butch."

"Oswald Cobblepot and Butch Gilzean," Bullock threw in.

"There were a few others there as well, I think security guards," you continued, "I refused to go inside."

"Why?"

"Something felt off," you countered, "I'm sorry don't have a better explanation."

"What happened next?"

"Batman happened," you replied quietly, "Batman fell out of the ceiling," you repeated looking Gordon in the eyes, "he jumped out through the ceiling vent grate, beat everyone up in a snap, and told us to leave."

"Just like that?" Bullock questioned.

"I didn't ask him why," you furrowed your eyebrows, "I almost shit myself when he jumped out of the ceiling. Sorry, but I didn't give a shit about his reasons!"

"Alright, that was Saturday," you followed Gordon's voice with your eyes, "What happened on Sunday?"

You calmed your blood pressure, regretting not asking for a glass of water, and continued.

"As I mentioned earlier, Harleen asked me to go with her to pick up her boyfriend who she said was returning from a short vacation. She was very eager for me to meet him, so I didn't refuse even though I didn't feel like socializing after the Saturday events."

"After all that happened you just said yes?" Bullock inquired.

"I know how it looks, but I didn't even have time to think about it all," you replied, "more than that, I looked at everything through the prism of our friendship."

"Continue please," Gordon encouraged.

"Harleen didn't tell me where we were going, and I didn't ask. I was tired and lost in thought. In the car, we talked about her work at Arkham Asylum, and we got into a discussion about how dangerous that job was and how dangerous Gotham was. Trivial matters of life decisions and supporting each other, the kind that friends talk about. Although now as I recall that conversation, it takes on a whole different context…" you remarked quietly, "anyways, Harleen said she wanted to drive up to Arkham on the way because the doctors were donating blood on Sundays and now it was her turn. I had no reason to suspect a lie."

"What happened next?"

"Harleen went to the hospital and I stayed in front of the gate by the car. She was gone for a long time. And suddenly I heard an explosion and sirens! I was scared that something had happened!"

"Why didn't you run away? A normal person would have run away," Bullock threw in another question.

"I was worried about my friend! You have my recording! I called 911, reported the incident and seriously for a moment I wanted to go into the Asylum and look for her! I was afraid for her! But before I could go in I saw her from a distance running. I had her on the phone, she was screaming for me to start the engine. I thought she was running away from whatever was going on there. I didn't think twice! I jumped in the car and started the engine. She shouted, urged me on, everything happened very fast…" you recounted in one breath, "I didn't even look at the seat next to me. Only at the moment when the Joker put the gun to my head did I realize what was really happening."

"But you didn't stop the car," Bullock noted.

"Did you skip the part where the Joker put the gun to my forehead, detective?" you fumed angrily, "again, I've never been in a situation like that, obviously! I didn't know what to do! Everything happened very quickly! Only screaming and a gun to my forehead! I was trying not to kill us and at the same time not to kill anyone along the way! And then everything sped up even more when Batman appeared out of nowhere! So forgive me, Detective Bullock, but I didn't think, I reacted to the situation! Joker as soon as he saw Batman started shooting! I was afraid that he would shoot one of the people walking by, I was afraid that I would cause a crash! I tried to maneuver through traffic and not cause an accident!"

"How did it happen that you drove off the road?" Gordon asked softly.

"I did it on purpose," you replied as if slightly embarrassed.

"On purpose?"

"The situation escalated, I knew Harleen was a great swimmer, it seemed the only way out of the situation. I didn't want anyone innocent to get hurt."

"Weren't you concerned for yourself?"

"I wasn't thinking," you replied, "I wanted to stop all this. Driving off the road seemed the best solution at that moment."

"How did you get out of the car?"

"Batman pulled me out," you replied, "he saved my life…." you added in a half-whisper.

Silence fell when you finished telling the story. Gordon and Bullock exchanged meaningful glances as if they were wordlessly exchanging thoughts. Your gaze wandered once again to a dark corner of the commissioner's office hidden in shadows an anxious shiver ran down your spine. The shadow seemed to have a shape.

"Alright,'" Gordon broke the silence, "we have no more questions. Detective Bullock will escort you to the exit. Please do not leave the city and remain available should we have any more questions."

"Commissioner, what about Harleen? Have you found her? Is she safe?" you asked unable to hide the worry in your voice.

"Harleen Quinzel remains wanted with a warrant for her arrest. Her whereabouts are currently unknown," Gordon stated before thanking you again for your time and closing the door behind you.

*

Gordon watched Bullock and Y/N walking away for a moment before turning the lock on the door and sitting down again behind the desk, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag while slowly letting the smoke out.

"What do you think?" he asked into the space.

"I think she is telling the truth," a growly voice answered from the shadows.

"Yes, I think so too. Poor girl. I haven't seen such bad luck in one person for a long time," he sighed heavily.

"Though just because she doesn't lie doesn't change the fact that we have to keep an eye on her. Her history with Qunizel and genuine concern for her safety makes me think that Miss Y/L/N still has a role to play. Either of her own will or in spite of it."

"You want me to put APB on her?"

"No. I will handle this myself."

"I'm sure you've heard about the pilot," Gordon added after a moment, letting out a puff of smoke, "have you had a chance to check out his apartment yet?"

"I've got Nightwing and Robin working on it as we speak," Batman replied, "I'll let you know when I know something."

"Batman, I don't think there's any connection. The guy hung himself!" Gordon began to think aloud receiving only a cold breath of air in response. The shadow was just an empty shadow again. Batman was gone.

***

Across town in a small suite on the second floor of an apartment building once lived Marc Phillips. Marc was an average man, working as a car mechanic by day, earning just enough to live an average life and pay alimony. Marc wasn't proud of his average life, but he was proud of his avionette. A beautiful little plane that he loved more than his own wife, although he never admitted it. He cherished it, cared for it, looked after it like it was the most precious treasure. Mark didn't quite like his average life, but he loved the moments when he took the avionette into the air above streets and buildings and skyscrapers. Yes, in those moments Marc felt he was alive. How happy he was when his closest friend found a lovely woman he wanted to marry. She was a good, honest woman, the kind Marc had met very few in his life. How proud he was when he was able to offer them a private flight in his beautiful avionette for their dream honeymoon. How despaired he was when all that joy splashed into a wet stain on the dirty pavement. Marc knew that if he was gone no one would take care of his beautiful avionette, his greatest pride. As he put the loop around his neck, he imagined how rust ruined and ate away the red paint, how moisture covered the blue with a foul green hue. Yet that evening Marc wanted to feel free. He wanted all his fears and anxieties to disappear. He wanted to rise above his mediocre life one last time. His last flight, however, turned out to be short, just half a meter, which was given to him by a knocked-down chair. Then came the darkness.

"Bills, payment notices, signed divorce papers, nothing interesting," Tim was browsing through a dresser drawer, looking for anything that might provide a link to the investigation.

"Standard rope probably purchased at Home Depot. Good strong weave, zero rush, looks like he was tying it for two days," Dick looked closely at the marks, "he knew full well what he was doing. The rope was woven tightly with a triple twist, leaving no chance of breaking. The length was chosen almost perfectly, considering the height of the chair."

"Poor bastard," Tim muttered under his breath, "what do we know about his psychiatrist?"

"Professor Jonathan Crane. A renowned psychiatrist, specializing mainly in trauma, PTSD, and phobias. Born in Gotham, he graduated from Gotham University with honors. He later worked at Metropolis General Hospital and the Royal Memorial Hospital in Star City. Recently, he has become the head of the psychiatric wing at Elliot Memorial."

"Isn't that chick who broke the Joker out of Asylum a psychiatrist as well?" Tim asked inquisitively.

"Hey, just because we have two psychiatrists on file doesn't mean they have any connection to each other, Robin," Dick corrected his brother.

"A bit too much of a coincidence don't you think?" Tim countered and returned to searching through the drawers, "Hey Nightwing?!"

"Yup?"

"Didn't Batman seem more cryptic than usual to you today?"

"Yup!"

"He's hiding something."

"Yup!"

"Do you think it has something to do with that girl?"

"Yup!"

"Hey, I found the pills!"

"Good job Robin!" Nightwing applauded as he walked over to his brother, "Damn, a whole drawer of pills."

"Sedatives, sleeping pills, antidepressants," Robin looked at each bottle separately to finally stop at one, "these I don't know," he stated lifting a small bottle to the light.

"Neither do I," Nightwing stated looking at the pill, "take them, take them all. This is the only trace so far."

"Not quite!" Robin grinned, raising the folder of documents to eye level, "hospital discharge and diagnosis!" he announced with a smirk.

"Jackpot! Our job is done here."

***

If one would raise his eyes upward and look at the evening sky casting its blackness over the city he would see nothing. He would not see the black figure rising and falling between the buildings, spreading his cape and gliding above the city. He would not have noticed the calm face and keen eyes scanning the city intently. He wouldn't have noticed the discreet turns of his head picking up on disturbing sounds. He would not have heard his cape flapping in the wind, would not have noticed the worry painted on his face at the sight of the huddled figure sitting on the edge of the bridge leading to Gotham North. From the street, it was hard to see the black figure in the starless sky. Yet Batman could see everything. He perched on the building's rooftop close enough to see everything yet far enough away to remain unnoticed. She was sitting there, exactly where the metal railings had been until two weeks ago. Black leather jacket, heavy boots, her hair loose and dancing in the wind, she seemed distant. Gazing into the rough waters of the bay, she seemingly carelessly waved her legs hanging off the bridge. "Why would she come here?" he wondered, "what is she hiding?"

For a moment he thought of leaving her there. For a moment he considered turning his back to her and carrying on with his patrol. For a moment he was convinced that he shouldn't approach her, that this was a very bad move. And yet there was something wrong with the sad picture he was observing, something that wouldn't let him just walk away. Zooming in on her face, he realized that something was missing. He was missing the feisty smile he had come to know, the carefree laugh and that adorable embarrassment. The picture was broken. He couldn't simply ignore it. He gently jumped off the roof and soared toward her landing softly a few steps away, careful not to scare her.

"Don't jump," he murmured quietly as he approached her slowly. She shuddered and turned abruptly, too abruptly for his liking.

"Batman…" she gasped with widened eyes.

"You're not planning to jump are you?"

"No," she replied shortly, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm the one who should be asking you that."

"I'm waiting," she replied without taking her eyes off him.

"Waiting for what?"

"A miracle, I guess,'" she quipped, "my phone died in the water, and Harleen doesn't respond to my messages on Insta, Messenger and Twitter. Don't know why, but I was kinda hoping that I would find her here."

"You shouldn't be looking for her."

"She's my friend!" she fumed angrily, "if nothing else at least she owes me an explanation."

"Let it go. She has made her choices."

"It's so easy for you to judge people Batman?" she asked and looked away gazing once again at the water below, "it's so easy for you to cross someone out? Maybe it's not what you think it is?"

Batman did not answer immediately. Part of Bruce knew he shouldn't, yet he drowned out that voice. He sat down next to her on the edge of the bridge and fixed his eyes on the raising waves.

"Then tell me how you think it is…" out of the corner of his eye he saw her flinch slightly surprised by his action, but she did not take her gaze off the water.

"Harleen is a good person. All her life she has wanted to help people. That's why she chose her specialty. She has always said that there is a stigma against people with mental disorders, especially those who commit crimes. She objected to the statement that the criminally insane cannot be cured. She always said that she would prove to ignorant people that illness, any illness, can be cured or at least mitigated," Y/N said and Batman listened in silence, "Does that sound to you like a description of someone you treat like a criminal?"

"No," he admitted, "but I, unlike you, know something you don't."

"Which is?"

"I know who the Joker is."

"Another reason to consider her his victim, not his accomplice," Y/N stated stubbornly, "you know she's a wanted criminal?"

"I know."

"I'll find her first and prove that she, like me, is just an innocent victim of circumstance," fierceness flashed in her eyes and Bruce realized that there were no words that could stop her, "I'll find her before the cops find her, before you do!" she furrowed her brows angrily and tightened her hands on the edge of the bridge. Bruce knew this fierceness well. He saw it many times in Dick's eyes, Jason's, Tim's, in his own each time he looked in the mirror.

"You almost drowned," he tried to appeal to her sense of self-preservation, "you almost died in there," he looked at her but she stubbornly stared into the water.

"You saved me…" she whispered finally, "And I thank you for that," he did not comment. "Thank you also for sending paramedics to my house."

"You're welcome."

"How did you know where I live?"

"I didn't," he lied, "The policewoman knew."

"Right…"

"Leave the Harleen case to me and the cops," he insisted gently, "two weeks ago you almost drowned. Leave it. Go back to your normal life, to your family, to your job."

"I can't…" she replied before adding after a brief pause, "you're right, I almost died. I should have died. Every day I get from now on is a gift. I can't just go back to work and normal life. I can't leave her."

"I can't let you put yourself in danger and potentially hinder the investigation."

"Then help me,"" she snapped her eyes and looked straight into his own, "Will you help me, Batman?"

***

Chapter six: Choices that define us ~~***~~

Author note: It took a while but here we are at the end of chapter five! Thank you for your patience. I'm really trying to publish chapters as consistently as I can but unfortunately, there is work and other responsibilities. And these chapters, well they do take time. I hope it was worth the wait! We had slow down a bit, take a breather after chapter four, tighten the plot, so we could pick up the pace again. Besides, I am really enjoying slow world-building, adding characters, adding new pieces to the story, connecting the dots. I do hope that it will pay off at the end. I've been asked for a tag list and I took the liberty of adding some of you so please let me know if you want to be added or removed. I thank you all for your DMs, comments and reblogs. Even if I do not respond to all of them, I assure I read them all, and each brings a smile to my face. Enough of me bubbling, gotta start working on chapter six cos I kinda miss Bruce ;) For now, as always Dear Reader, I thank you for reading.

~~***~~ Tag list: @clown-princesa @theclassicvinyldragon @blondwhowrites @green-parx @batgirlspain

#batman x reader #batman x y/n #bruce wayne x reader #scarecrow #jonathan crane #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #batman fanfiction #batfam #nightwing #robin #batfamily #dick grayson #batman x you #bruce wayne x fem!reader #tim drake #batman x fem!reader #batman #bruce wayne #dc comics #bruce wayne fanfiction #gotham

[waddlewaddlewaddlewaddle]

Over my head (Miguel ‘o’ Hara x Reader)

Chapter 2

Pairing: Miguel x f reader!

Summary: y/n is a kind hearted nurse who’s life gets turned upside down as she get fired from one the most prestigious hospitals in NYC , desperate , she start filing job applications wherever. Coincidentally a stressed Miguel is looking for a nurse due to a big amount of spider people getting injured due to the surprisingly large amount of anomalies happening in the spider verse. What could go wrong is these two meet?

Themes:

Mutual pining

✎office romance (¿)

Hidden romance

✎Smut available as story progresses.

Dom Miguel x sub/bratty reader

✎Stubborn, Ill tempered Miguel.

✎ Angelic reader .

Medium slow burn.

✎I try to be as accurate as possible.

English is not my first language so bare with me.

✎badass stoic x sweet empath.

Wc:1.4k

Og spanish speaker so be prepared for steamy dialogue :3

(For the sake of storytelling spider society’s HQ is on earth 2099 :D)

See master list for previous or future chapters

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

As Miguel scanned through the résumés that lyla picked out for him , all he could do is sigh and make uninterested faces at the computer. All the applicants seemed untrustworthy , not qualified enough , they lacked experience in Miguel’s eyes. He was worried there wouldn’t be a candidate who’ll keep their mouth shut about the spider society. He couldn’t handle the risk of a villain getting notice of their HQ.

Lyla watched as Miguel’s eyebrows turned into a worried knot as he watched the HQ’s camera as more injured Spider-Men barely hopped out of the portal only to plummet into the ground with their face beaten black and blue.

-“I know you need me to be obedient especially when you’re like this, but how about you check this application. It is a lady but”-Lylas sentence is cut short by Miguel’s interruption.

-“Looking at that application will only be a waste of time , I don’t want my men distracted with anything love like plus I need a nurse who can carry a 170 pound man in deadweight.”-Scolded Miguel as he looks at Lyla with a raised eyebrow.

-“Fine I’ll speak in your language then, the applicants a valedictorian, cum laude , graduated from Cornell university, certified critical care nurse , worked 3 years in presbyterian hospital and did plenty volunteering while finishing her med school and for the moment volunteers once a week. Such a goody too shoes , she seems kinda boring not gonna lie. But she will do.”-Lyla giggled as she sat on Miguel’s shoulder as she looked at his defeated face realizing you might just be the person he’s looking for.-“Plus I can ask for Spider-Man 199999 to make some robotic hospital beds!”

Miguel lifted the corner of his mouth in 1/8th of a smile, Lyla may be insufferable some times but the majority of time she was one of his best workers, if she recommended you it must be with a good reason

-“Call pavitr through the communicator and assign him to run a background check on y/n and have him follow her around for two days, if everything goes well assign an interview for Friday and have Jessica interview her.”- He said sternly even though in the bottom of his heart he felt some relief cause things were started to look better for him.

Just when he thought he could get himself a cup of coffee, his communicator started going off asking for backup in some random universe. He quickly sheathed his mask on and after receiving the coordinated portal hopped to help his co workers out.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

After receiving the good news of your interview yesterday you called Gigi with delight letting her know you got a job offer, a lot of the information is undisclosed but you’re happy you got the chance to work in what passionate about. All you hope is that you get some bonuses here and there and a decent pay.

You open your closet door after an intensive shower and grab a black turtle neck to hide your bruised neck after the accident, you pair it with a pair of white slacks and some black Mary Janes.

Lastly you do your makeup to your hearts desire and let your hair lay loose , you quickly lock up the door and run to the metro to head to the job interview.

At arrival your eyes take in a beautiful view, you gaze upon a Mediterranean cafe with gorgeous white detailing on the outside and through the window you saw some wooden tables surrounded by sky blue walls with woven straw lamps. As you entered the cafe there were few people in there , but the most distinguished was a woman with good looking Afro that decorated her head wonderfully, at closer inspection you also realized she was pregnant.

As she notices you staring at her she signaled you over to her table and invited you with her facial expressions to sit down.

-“Hello, you must be y/n. I know you didn’t upload a photo on your resume but something tells me it’s you.”- Said the mysterious women as if she hadn’t scanned and analyzed through 20 photos of you that Pavitr took of you while spying on you for the last 2 days.

-“Yes! I’m the one applying for the corporate nurse position , do you happen to be my possible employer?”- You asked with curious eyes.

The mysterious woman let out a big chuckle while resting her hands on her belly.

-“Me?! No god no”.- She said while shaking her head trying to die down her laughter- “You’re gonna wish I was though. Just kidding!”- after popping that joke she stood up straight getting meaning she was ready to talk business. -“Im Jessica Drew btw, so tell me y/n , what makes you stand out from other nurses and why should we hire you?”- Spiderwoman didn’t flinch while telling you her true identity, you seemed nice but most importantly you’re not from her earth so why should she care.

While you chatted with Jessica ;with each anecdote that came out of your mouth she was more sure that you were fit for the job , she knew you would take care of any spider person without any prejudice be it plushy Spider-Man or the ugliest of spider people. She really wanted to be confident in her decision because even tho it cost her to admit it , she cared deeply for her coworkers particularly a blond one. So after hearing about your time volunteering and a through personality analysis. You got the job.

After knowing her decision your eyes lit up and you could feel you spark return to your soul , the salary was beyond incredible ( mysteriously incredible) and you were to visit the company tomorrow to present yourself and to check out the infirmary so you can create a list of devices and supplies that you’ll need to have the place running in no time

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

The next day news spread quickly of your arrival, many spider people were glad to have you in their HQ mainly because they didn’t have healthcare in their earth but partly also because a new face excited them , especially one without a spider mask.

In the meanwhile Spider byte and peni Parker started to work on a database like program that would be ready at your arrival , in this program all the spider people put in their medical history like allergies ,any prior diseases or special conditions.

As to your surprise the company you will soon be working in is located in the ugly part of town, you had to take a couple buses to get there but a long commute never bothered you, soon you arrived at spid-so.co which was oddly a… warehouse? Negative thoughts started to plague your mind about your job, maybe this job offer is too good to be true . But all those negative thoughts had to be blown away ;you couldn’t fuck up your only job offer.

So as you rang the doorbell you pulled out a pocket knife , hoping you wouldn’t need to use it , but as you hear heavy foot approach the opposite side of the door you decide squeeze your eyes shut and whip out the pocket knife in front of you to protect yourself from your possible kidnappers.

The next thing you feel is a strong hand wrap around both of your wrist; with enough pressure to keep still but gentle enough so it didn’t hurt. As you fluttered your eyes open your gaze stumbled upon a lamp post of a man, he was tan ; probably Hispanic. He had a strong face structure and a gaze that’ll send you running away but hair so fluffy that it cancels all the intimidating features out. This strange fellow looked so masculine to you even though he was just wearing some sweat pants and a compression shirt, a compression shirt that defined and highlighted his hunky shoulders and broad back that was miraculously help up by some shredded obliques and a tiny waist.

You looked at him with a wide stare wondering what the hell was going on, he was clearly not your average office worker.

Seeing your confused expression the figure in front of you decided to take the pocket knife from your hands diligently and open his mouth to let out a deep but stern voice.

-“Now who let you think you knew how to handle this?”-

#SoundCloud #miguel o'hara #spider man 2099 #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderman #miguel x reader #smut #office romance #hiddenromance #mutual pining #slow burn #fanfic #mi gente latino #lolz #comments are appreciated #suggestions are welcome #idk what else to tag #idk what tags to use #pls be nice #pls like

[inhuman-obey-me]

💎 with lucifer please!

jksgvdsl this is so late that literally a whole entire new OM game has come out since, I am SO sorry for the delay on this one!!

"The more the diamond glitters, the more it can deceive." - Lucifer

(Nightbringer 8-A spoilers below the cut!)

It's a beautiful day in the Celestial Realm. Light shimmers off the ground like magic, and a gentle wash of warm sunlight glows upon everything in sight. Greenery entwines itself elegantly over the splendid white marble of the palace. It's the kind of day that reminds Lucifer of everything that makes the Celestial Realm so lovely. His home, the only home he's ever known. The only one he's ever wanted to know. Beautiful, shining. Perfection.

Just like he's supposed to be.

That's why, the first time Lucifer had descended to the Devildom, he was sure he would not be impressed. His landing seemed to confirm it -- the soil was awful, the chaos too noisy, the endless dark of the sky casting a veneer of unease over everything.

And then there were the demons -- wicked, abominable monsters, tricky and untrustworthy. There wasn't a moment to let his guard down., in a place like this. The demon prince had greeted him warmly, sure. The prince's butler was ever smiling and polite to him, if a tad derisive about the angel's alarm at the blackberry filling inside his cake. But Lucifer refused not to be too careful. He knew all about the ways demons used their honeyed words to manipulate the innocent into doing their bidding.

So certainly, the prince's goals, as he described them, seemed lofty and admirable -- a shining future for the betterment of all. But the more the diamond glitters, the more it can deceive. Demons are not to be trusted. Isn't that right?

Yet it is he himself, the illustrious morning star of the Celestial Realm, who finds himself lying and deceiving lately. The ideals that the demon prince espouses, suspicious as their speaker may be, do seem righteous, and Lucifer cannot understand why his Father keeps dismissing them out of hand. Meanwhile, his beloved sister's trial awaits, just days away, and she seems destined to find no mercy. Conflict swirls in his mind constantly, thoughts he knows he can't share with any of the other angels. Especially not with any of his fellow seraphs, his heart drifting away with the pull of his secrets -- from Michael, from Raphael, even from Simeon.

Of course, he knows how sharp Simeon can be. Easygoing though he may seem, he has never been so easily deceived. He's sure, sitting across from him even now, cheerfully chatting over tea together, that his dear friend can tell just how much has been weighing on his mind, even if he doesn't know exactly what that weight is about.

But he doesn't ask, and for that, Lucifer is grateful.

"Raphael," Simeon says instead, "why don't you sing for us? Lucifer has been away on business so often lately, I'm sure he misses hearing your song."

The younger seraph nods seriously. His voice is clear and light as he begins, as if purifying the very air it fills with his music. Simeon, brown hair gleaming golden with sunlight, hums quietly along with a sweet smile, and reaches over to refill his friend's now-empty cup.

As the warm floral scent wafts up gently off the drink, slowly the thoughts swirling in Lucifer's head begin to finally melt away -- at least for now. At least for today. He can let himself have this -- one beautiful, shining day in the Celestial Realm, relaxing with his closest friend and just enjoying the perfection of it all.

Soon, he thinks to himself. Soon, there will be no more lies. No more deception.

#obey me #obey me! #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me nightbringer #obey me nightbringer spoilers #obey me nb #obmnb #obey me lucifer #om! lucifer #obey me fic #obey me drabble #2700 follower celebration #writings #drabble #mod chaos in the devildom