#I’m actually so deeply unwell about this parallel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alexdnn-art · 2 years ago

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GOOD OMENS 2 EPISODE 2 REACTION - CONTAINS SPOILERS‼️

sooo bearded crowley in this episode am I right 😔 yup 2500 BC… HERE HE IS!!! i hate him so much

nah he’s talking about God abandoning him i don’t actually hate him poor fallen angel

WHAT IS AZIRAPHALE DOING

so if this is after the flood crowley had a huge glow down

“I COMMAND THEE, BEGONE!” “no.” he’s so me i’m so him (he has a permit from god??)

“satan and his diabolical ministers may destroy everything Job owns no question asked, hugs kisses, god” AND THE PAPER IS THAT LONG?

CROWLEY’S SO BITCHY

so aziraphale had met muriel before

LONG HAIRED GABRIEL WHY DOES HE LOOK SO?? JUST?? SO WRONG😭

AHH EVE WAS THE FIRST NOT ADAM

“i think they quite like the old ones”

alphabetical order!! FIRST LETTER OF THE FIRST SENTENCE HELP

OH WAIT I GET IT, in the playlists prime video dropped you have to look at the first letter of the lyrics of each song to have the words “ineffable” and “tempting” AND IT’S BECAUSE OF THIS JOKE

“EVERY DAY ITS A-GETTING CLOSER”🎶 lol didn’t jon hamm say he doesn’t sing in an interview

CROWLEY CHANGED CLOTHES THE TURTLENECK DBHDHSJN CROWLEY WITH THE TUTLENECK

theory time: shax says that the miracle could’ve been performed only by the mightiest of archangels and crowley asks her how does she know he didn’t do it, are you telling me crowley was an archangel??

okay they’re both risking to be eliminated now

aziraphale SINGING

NOOOOOSTOPCRYING MAGGIE

HEHEHEHHE SHE’S IN LOVE (“it’s not your job to sort out my doomed love life” because he should think about HIS love life first)

“every record they play eventually turns into that song” you mean like queen songs in the bentley?

“Gabriel.” HEART SKIPPED A BEAT “where is Gabriel.”

wooo saraqael creating wheelchair ramps

“falling in love is what humans do” crying rn

don’t i know you? NO YOU DONT SHUT UP 😁

NAHHH why is heaven watching him again leave aziraphale alone☹️

HERE IT GOEEEEES EVERY DAY🎶🎶🎶🎶

the pub from the picture!!

making them fall in love this is such a fanfiction trope i love it

A SUDDEN RAINSTORM FORCES THEM TOGETHER BENEATH A CANOPY THEY LOOK INTO EACH OTHER’S EYES AND REALIZE THEY WERE MADE FOR EACH OTHER???? OHHHHH I JUST KNOW THATS GONNA HAPPEN TO AZIRAPHALE AND CROWLEY AS WELL

if you’re going to invoke fiction… aziraphale are you about to say jane austen?

HE SAID IT yess i knew they were gonna have the ball for nina and maggie I CANT BELIEVE THIS IS ACTUALLY TRUE?

“PEOPLE WOULD GATHER DO SOME FORMAL DANCING AND REALIZE THEY HAD MISUNDERSTOOD EACH OTHER AND WERE ACTUALLY DEEPLY IN LOVE” okay but can you try to be a little more subtle

a clue!!!😼

“jim tell me what do you know” / “oookay, whaddayaknow” IM ON THE FLOOR STOPSPPP WHY ITS NOT EVEN THAT FUNNY

WOOO PURPLE EYES- is that god’s voice?

ANOTHER FLASHBACK oh no not bearded crowley again… his hair has lost volume

Bildad the Shuhite?? 💀

“i know you” / “you do not know me” AAAAAAAAAAA

NO WAIT THIS IS AFTER THE FLOOD. WHEN CROWLEY SAID “YOU CANT KILL KIDS” IM UNWELL aziraphale does know this is not what crowley wants to do

“I KNOW THE ANGEL YOU WERE” OHH I WAS WRONG HE REMEMBERS HE REMEMBERS HIM

he wants to do it because he was blameless too but he fell anyway. bye i’m about to appear on international news

the goats are back 😭😭😭😭 STOP THIS IS CUTE look at aziraphale’s face

“you can stop grinning” HHEJEHRHEHRH

“DOESN’T MEAN WE’RE ON THE SAME SIDE” AND YEARS LATER CROWLEY IS THE ONE THAT TELLS HIM THEYRE ON THEIR OWN SIDE

“be not afraid” 👁️biblically accurate aziraphale👁️

TY TENNANT!!!! why’s he so gay

AWWWGGGHHH DAVID SAYING HIS SON SEEMS NICE

AZIRAPHALE SHOUTINGBHAHAH “I BRING THE WARNING” that was unexpected

what. just. happened.

aziraphale knew they were safe because crowley wouldn’t actually kill kids 😭

“oooh aren’t you brilliant” giggling kicking my feet

GIRL WHY DID YOU TURN THEM INTO GECKOS

am i about to witness aziraphale’s first time being drunk?

THATS A PARALLEL A DAMN PARALLEL between crowley/nina offering wine and aziraphale/maggie both not drinking

“are you trying to tempt me?” i was wrong this is going to be the first time aziraphale EATS omg HEHEHHHH HES PRECIOUS

lol btw this big thunderstorm is nothing compared to what has happened a few days ago where i live

CROWLEY IS ON HIS OWN SIDE!!!! AND THEN IT BECOMES THEIR SIDE!!!

“see you in hell” shut up???

i love this whole flashback but why does he have to have that beard im sorry i can’t get over it😔

YEP THATS GOD’S VOICE

also i just realized there’s no narrator this time rip

“if you want answers come back when you can make a whale” CROWLEY COULD MAKE STARS AND STILL DIDNT GET THE ANSWERS

“shoemaking and obstetrics” HELPPPP

aziraphale’s in trouble ohhhh he LIED

D’YOU NEED A LIFT SOMEWHERE 🫢

HE ASKED TO USE THE BENTLEY OMG THEIR CAR

crowley is me i’m so jealous of my possessions no matter who you are

aziraphale has a driving license?😨

NOUR! *slaps his hand*

aziraphale being bitchy is my favourite thing

THE SCENEEEEE THE SCENE FROM THE PICTURE IM SO EXCITED

aziraphale is so nervous nooo my little guy HE THINKS HES GOING TO FALL WHATTTT

“IM NOT TAKING YOU TO HELL, ANGEL”

NOOO THIS IS SO HEARTBREAKING STOP. STOP CRYING.

“with your curly little.. and your neat white” MY GODDD

AZIRAPHALE VOICE WHEN HE SAYS “IM A FALLEN ANGEL” I CANT. DO. THIS.

“that sounds um..” / “lonely?” end me right now

BUT THEYRE NOT GOING TO BE LONELY ANYMORE THEY HAVE EACH OTHER THEYRE ON THEIR OWN SIDE

(crowley saying “you’re on your own with this one” in ep1 is even worse to hear now 😍)

MURIEL CLIP NEXT EPISODE YAYY

tagging @neil-gaiman since he said he was interested in reading live reactions

#me acting like i haven’t seen the every a month ago #good omens #good omens season 2 #good omens season two spoilers #good omens season two #gos2 spoilers #gos2 #go2 spoilers #gos2spoilers #spoilers #gos2 reaction

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scuttling · 4 years ago

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All I Have To Give

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 5,096 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Daddy kink, Dom/sub, Collar & leash, Oral sex, Deep throating, Restraints, Fingering, Cockwarming, Spanking, Unprotected sex, Come marking, Subspace, Subdrop, Aftercare Summary: A difficult case brings complex emotions, and Aaron is willing to do anything to help the woman he loves process them. *Prompted by @ssamorganhotchner and @angelhotchner and this Link to AO3 or read below! Even after all of his time at the BAU, Aaron knows he hasn’t seen it all, or even close to it—it seems like the atrocities just get worse every year, that humans never fail to find a new way to hurt one another, and that makes him and everyone else on the team constantly question everything they know. He’d like to say it gets easier, but it really doesn’t; you just find new ways to lean on your partners, new ways to cope with the horrors and indecencies the world has to offer.

The case they are currently working on is hitting one profiler especially hard, and because Aaron happens to be in love with her, it’s hitting him hard as well.

“I just can’t imagine waking up one morning and thinking you have your whole life ahead of you, and then some asshole decides he likes the way you look and wants to turn you into his property,” she murmurs that night when they are laying together in the hotel room they share. She had been so strong all day, as always, and then all but collapsed into tears the second the door was closed behind them. “It’s disgusting.”

“I know, baby; cases like these are some of the worst.” He rubs her back with strong hands, pulls her close to his chest. “What can I do for you? I hate to see you like this.” She sniffles, brushes a hand over her eyes, shakes her head.

“I don’t think there’s anything right now. Just being here with me like this, and talking to me, it’s helping. Thank you.” He sighs, because he knows when she gets this upset just talking it out isn’t usually enough, but he has to follow her lead; he just leans in to press his lips to hers, gentle and sweet, and she curls her fingers into his t-shirt and falls asleep with her head against his chest.

The next day, they apprehend the unsub after a standoff; unfortunately, he’d killed the girls when he heard on the police scanner that law enforcement was approaching—all twelve of them. She is the one to find them, and she gets sick, a first in her five years at the BAU. Aaron goes to her side, brings some water for her; her eyes are haunted when she looks up at him.

“Branded,” she croaks, and he doesn’t understand at first, until he looks more closely at the pile of bodies and sees the marks seared into their hips: DM—the unsub’s initials. He exhales deeply, and she turns around and gets sick again.

They take him back to the precinct, try to get a DNA sample, but he won’t agree until his lawyer is present; his story is that his property has been unoccupied for some time, and that he had no idea the girls were being held there, or by whom.

Aaron knows he shouldn’t let her interrogate him. He knows that, but she pleads, and that is something he’s always been unable to resist.

“Branding, huh? Are you that insecure—that worried that the women you called your property wanted nothing to do with you?” she asks, standing with her arms crossed.

“Do you mean my herd? I didn’t just call them my property, honey. They were my property. I owned them. The brands are for everyone else, not for me.” She slams her hands down on the table, sweeps them over the photos she’d laid out in front of him, and they go fluttering to the ground. He can’t see her face, but he knows from her tone that her jaw is clenched, her eyes ablaze.

“You did not own them. Ownership is granted, not taken, you pathetic excuse for a man.” He flexes his hands against the cuffs fixed to the table but says nothing. “You are so powerless that this is the only way you can get it up, isn’t it? By stealing women from their families, their lives, and pretending they’re yours.”

“They are mine!” he shouts, but then he takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “I took… the herd, from their meaningless, mundane lives, I brought them home, I gave them purpose. Being my property gave them value they didn’t have before.”

“And then you killed them, so what’s the value now? How dumb do you look?” She gets right up in his face, and hateful, misogynistic poison glints in his eyes, shows through the calm facade he tries so desperately to project. “It’s like burning your own house down, isn’t it? Only there’s no insurance money to collect here, Darren. All that’s left is your stupid ass and a pile of bodies with your fucking name on them.”

“Don’t call me stupid,” he mutters, and she drums her fingers on the tabletop, almost thoughtfully.

“What would you call it? Risking everything to abduct twelve women only to turn around and kill them so they can’t tell us what a pitiful human being you are?” She leans in closer, and he turns his neck to face away from her, like he’s trying to ignore her. “But the thing is, I don’t need them to tell me,” she whispers. “I know you were a disappointment to your father, a disgrace to your mother. I know the disgusting, depraved things you did to your sister, and now the whole world’s going to know. I’m going to tell everyone.”

Aaron can see the change in him from where he stands on the other side of the glass, and he glances at Morgan, then makes for the door. He’s just gotten it open when the man pulls back and spits on her cheek; she freezes, then reaches up, wipes it off, calm and collected, and grabs his jaw with the hand not covered in saliva.

“Guess what, Darren? You’re my property, now. Your ass belongs to the US Government, and I’m going to personally ensure you never see the light of day again.” She holds her hand up—covered in DNA evidence—and walks past Aaron, out the door. She is unusually quiet on the flight back to DC despite the successful interrogation, pensive and solitary; even on the ride from the airport back home she just leans toward him, silent, hand resting on his thigh, her eyes unfocused.

He knows how hard this case hit her, can only hope that she will open up to him when they get home so he can give her what she needs to get through it. He will do anything, just needs to hear it from her.

“Why don’t we take a bath?” he says softly when they get home, dropping their bags in the laundry room, and he brushes a hand over her cheek. “We can soak the day away, and then maybe if you’re feeling better we can talk about what I can do to help.”

She looks up at him, nods, and they rid each other of their clothes and he draws them a bath, hot and foamy with calming aromatherapy oils she enjoys. She lays along his body, curled up, head on his chest, and he holds her close, massages the back of her neck and her shoulders with gentle fingers.

When they get out and dry off, she heads for her closet, returns with a box as tall as a thick book, a little less wide; she sets it on the bed, perches next to it, and looks up at him with expectant eyes.

“What’s this, baby?” he asks, approaching, and he kneels down, puts his arm around her and sets a hand on the box. “Is it for me?”

“Yes, daddy. It’s for you to put on me. I bought it a few weeks ago, but I… I need it now.” He lifts the lid, pulls out what he thinks at first is a wrist cuff but is actually a thick leather collar, with two metal rings attached to the front, and a… a leash. It’s made of metal chain, not long, with a leather loop to hold, and to say he’s caught off guard by this gift would be an understatement.

“You want me to put this on you? Can I ask why?” She moves toward him, puts her hands on the collar too, looks up at him with wide, wet eyes.

“Because I’m not my own person. You own me.” She tilts her neck, bares it, clearly waiting for him to put it on her, but what she’s saying doesn’t sit right with him, too many parallels to the case that made her so physically and mentally unwell.

“Baby, you are your own person. I love you for exactly who you are, and I would never try to own you, to take who you are away from you.” He presses his palm to her cheek, and she leans into it, kisses it with soft, gentle lips.

“It’s not you taking, daddy, it’s me giving. I need to give this to you—it’s the most important thing I have, and I need you to let me give this to you.” He exhales deeply, still not sold on the idea; she may think she wants this in the moment, feeling low as she is, but, what if she changes her mind? What if she no longer trusts his judgement because he plays into this when she’s not at her most clear-headed?

“Are you sure?” he asks, looking into her eyes, checking them for hesitation, but she only nods; he moves his hand from her cheek, gently pulls the collar out of her grip and brings it to her throat, buckles it at the nape of her neck. She sighs, something like relief when he leans back; she wets her lips, and her eyes are heavy.

“You own me, daddy. I’m yours, see?” She tilts her neck again, but all he sees is that it’s tight against her skin, maybe uncomfortably so. He frowns.

“Is it too tight? It looks too tight. I think we should take it off; maybe we can try again another night, when you didn’t have such a hard day.” He moves his hands to the back of her neck, wants to unbuckle it, but she gets upset almost instantly, looking down at her empty hands like they’re causing her pain. He covers them with his own, shushes her softly. “Oh, what is it, sweet girl? Daddy’s right here, it’s okay.”

“I just wanted to please you, daddy. Your name is on me, and I thought you would like it, but if you don’t want me this way…” That makes him pause, and he brings her hands to his lips, kisses them.

“What do you mean, my name is on you? What does that mean, baby?” She pulls her hand out of his, moves her hair out of the way, and then he sees it: his initials, AH, embossed on the collar in silver script.

God, it’s no wonder she had such a visceral reaction to the branding. And it’s no wonder she is stressing wanting to give this to him, when the other women had their choices taken from them. She has a choice, and she’s making it, and all he has to do is accept the gift she’s trying so hard to give to him.

“Please, daddy. I need to give this to you,” she murmurs, further solidifying what he now knows, and he wraps the chain around his hand, pulls it tight, tugs her close for a kiss.

The easy way the tension leaves her body at the possessive gesture makes him groan, and he kisses her so long and hard that—between the kissing and the collar—she is already in subspace when he pulls back to let them catch their breath.

“You’re mine, baby girl; my name is on you. I own you.” She pants, nods, puts her hands on his shoulders and looks into his eyes, so grateful, beautiful.

“Yes, daddy. Thank you, daddy. I’m yours so tell me what to do and I’ll do it, anything. Please.” He kisses her again, then climbs onto the bed, loosens his grip on the chain a bit and pulls her with him as he lays back against the pillows. Her gaze is warm, brilliant, and he guides her to kneel between his legs, drops the leash and takes the black hair tie off of her wrist to sweep her hair back into a ponytail. It’s by no means perfect, but she likes when he does it, knows what it means; she’s already staring at his cock, and he’s willing to bet her mouth is watering in anticipation.

“I want you to suck for me, sweet girl. Owned girl.” Her eyelashes flutter and she wets her lips, nods enthusiastically. She wraps one hand around his cock, presses the other against his thigh, and he picks up the chain again, tightens it as she drops to cover him with her mouth.

She starts with short, wet, slow strokes, looking up at him through her pretty lashes, and he’s reduced to just his love for her and his need to come, as always when she does this for him. He moans softly, reaches down a hand to squeeze her breast, to give her some contact and pleasure, and she whines, moves a little faster.

He wasn’t planning to come this way, but he can think of plenty of ways to keep her occupied and feeling good while he recovers, so he wraps the chain around his hand one more time, guides her down, so she’ll take him deeper. She can do it, has been trained at her own request, because almost nothing makes her wetter than having her mouth full of his cock.

“Good girl, you’re doing so good for daddy. Can I come down your throat, baby? Can you take it?” She nods, bobs, and he yanks the chain just to see what she will do.

It turns her into a bit of a feral little monster, humping her hips against nothing, digging her nails into his thigh, doubling down on her efforts to make him come, and he just tips his head back and enjoys it, pinches her nipple between his fingers.

“Yes, sweet girl. So close. Keep moving your hips, baby; horny, desperate girl. Daddy will let you come soon, just keep going.” Perfect woman that she is, she hums around him, takes him deeper yet; the chain is wound so far around his hand he thinks absently that he may as well just hold onto her collar, and when he hooks his finger around the metal ring she looks up at him and moans.

He comes holding onto that ring, and when she is finished swallowing for him he pulls her up by it, kisses her passionately, gratefully, and whispers praise against her lips; she is soaking wet, he can feel it where she is sprawled on his stomach, so he guides her to lay back on the bed and leans in for a couple more kisses.

“That was perfect, my sweet, owned girl. Did you like that?” He holds the chain loose and rubs two fingers over her clit, and she bucks up, nods her head.

“Yes, owner daddy. I love when you let me take you that far. It makes me achy,” she whines, and he spreads her thighs apart, very wide, presses a finger inside.

“I know, baby. I can feel how soft and wet you are for daddy. I want you to come on my fingers next, okay?”

“Yes, please, I want to. Want to come on them hard for you.” He leans in for a sweet, soft kiss, slides his finger out of her, then takes her hands and brings them together under her chin, wraps the chain around her wrists so they’re loosely bound, holding the handle in his fist. She moans like he’s destroying her, though he’s barely touched her, but when he slips two fingers inside her she just gasps softly and throws her head back, her stomach tensing.

“Such a pretty girl for me. I’m so lucky you’re all mine.” He is calm—or at least, he’s projecting calm—where she is keyed up, eager, desperate, and he always loves it like this, loves to see how much he can tease her, how long she will hold out until she’s begging for him to fuck her with his hand. “Can you stay still for me? I wonder how long you can stay still for me, sweet girl.”

“Mmm, daddy.” Her chest is heaving as he thrusts his fingers slowly in, then out, then rubs them up her pussy, between her lips, and then thrusts them back in. It’s got to be torture for her, but she just breathes. “I can stay still, daddy. I can do whatever you ask.”

He closes his eyes briefly, collects himself so he doesn’t let all that power go to his head, and pushes his fingers into her a bit faster just to watch her struggle to behave.

“Does that feel good, daddy’s girl?” She bites her lip and nods, offers him a strained god, yes, so he adds another finger; the fact that she can speak at all means she’s far too coherent for his liking. He leans up for a kiss, brushes his nose over her throat, along the edge of the collar, right where his initials are, and she lifts her hips but stops herself, whimpers. “Oh, baby, what is it? Are you needy?” he whispers in her ear.

“Needy, please daddy,” she pleads softly, her eyes focused on him when he pulls back to look at her face, but also a little far away at the same time. “Please, please, I need to come. I need to come, I’m achy.”

“Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll make you come, sweet girl.” He presses their mouths together a couple times, losing his composure a little as she loses hers, and then he moves down between her open legs and rubs his tongue over her clit while pounding his fingers inside.

She is unable to resist moving her hips as she gets closer to climax, and he pulls away, pausing to look up into her eyes again. They’re very hazy now, and she’s whining high in her throat at the sudden lack of stimulation.

“If you don’t stay still, daddy will have to spank you, baby girl. Do you understand?” She nods lazily, and he taps his hand against her pussy, a couple of light slaps just to get her attention. She blinks, makes eye contact, and he asks again. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, daddy.” She flicks her tongue over her lips, closes her eyes, and he leans back in to roll his tongue over her clit, fingers moving quickly in and out of her. She remains still for about thirty seconds and then slams down hard against his hand, and from there she doesn’t stop. “Oh please, please. So close, please daddy,” she begs, pressing into the thrusts, and just when she is starting to come he wraps his hand around the chain around her wrists, tugs her body up so he can reach her mouth, and kisses her deep and wet while he fucks her through her orgasm.

She comes hard as promised, soaking his hand, moaning into the kiss—probably due to the fact that he’s holding her up by the leash, because displays of strength make her feel extremely submissive—and when she is through he lays her gently back, unwinds the chain and kisses her wrists.

“Good girl, you did so well. Daddy is so proud.” He leans up to press easy kisses to her cheeks and mouth, and she wraps her arms around his neck, making soft noises of contentment against his lips. “I love you so much, sweetheart. I love making you feel good. Do you love making me feel good?”

He knows she does, but likes to hear it, even when it’s just a sigh like the one she gives him now—he knows what all of her sounds mean, when she’s so deeply sunken into subspace that she's all begging and soft noises and daddy.

“Yeah, I know you do, sweetheart. Are you ready for me to come inside you? Daddy comes inside because he owns you.”

“Daddy, mmm,” she breathes, and he gets up on his knees, spreads them, and drapes her thighs over his, slides in easily because she is still so open and slick. He wraps one hand around her thigh and brings the other to the chain hooked to her collar, loops it around his forearm, and thrusts quick and smooth, grunting when she grabs his wrists and bucks her hips against him. “Oh, fuck. Oh.” She gasps when he pulls on the chain a little harder, bounces roughly against his thighs and whimpers her pleasure, then drops a hand to her pussy and rubs as he slams into her with equal desperation.

“Yes baby, fuck daddy. Good girl, rubbing your little pussy; if I come before you, you’ll have to wait a while, so I hope you get off first.” She whines unhappily at that, rubs faster, her head tipped back, and when he squeezes her breast with the hand holding the handle of the leash she wraps her legs tightly around his thighs and comes with his name on her lips.

It doesn’t take long for him to follow: he takes his hands off of her completely, since she’s holding on to him with her legs, and fucks her hard, pulling on the chain and muttering praise until he spills deep inside her. She is breathless, still but for the rise and fall of her chest, and he takes a moment before pulling out, unwrapping the chain from around his arm and encouraging her to turn onto her stomach.

She complies easily, looks fucked-out and spent, and he kisses along her spine, between her shoulder blades when he slides back into her.

“Again, daddy?” she asks, barely a whisper, and he runs his hands over her body, soft and soothing, leans in to put his weight against her back, his mouth at her ear.

“Not yet, baby girl, but I want to stay inside you, okay? How are you feeling?” She turns her head for a kiss, hums.

“Fuzzy. Good.” He kisses her again and moves his lips to her jaw, then her neck, right up against the collar.

“Is it uncomfortable? Too tight?” he asks softly. He doesn’t want to upset her by suggesting they take it off, but he’s been rough with it, so he wants to check.

“No, owner daddy. It’s perfect.” She gets her arm out from beneath her, reaches it around his neck and pulls him close, nuzzles against his throat. “I love you and I love being owned by you.”

“I love you, baby girl, and I love owning you. You’ve given me everything.”

This may have started as something to do to get her through the lingering effects of the case, but he would be lying if he said he doesn’t see and feel the value in the voluntary transfer of power, how easily she gave herself to him, willingly, completely. He kisses her again, sweet and slow, and then leans up, puts his hands on her ass, massages it.

“Do you need anything?” She murmurs yes, and he smiles a little to himself, rubs a hand up her back. “Thank you for telling me, baby. What can daddy do for you?”

“I need to be spanked, daddy. I couldn’t hold still.” She slides up to her hands and knees, knees spread wide, and though he’s no longer hard inside her, he doesn’t see that being a problem for long.

“That’s right. Good girl for reminding me.” He squeezes her ass, then lightly taps it, and she whimpers. “You were too horny, you couldn’t stay still. I’m not mad,” he promises with another tap. “I know how you get when I touch your pussy: you become such a messy, needy, desperate baby. You can’t help yourself.” She sighs, presses her ass back against him and tilts her head back a little.

“Can’t help myself, daddy,” is all she says, voice breathy and short, and he picks up the leash, holds it loosely along the length of her spine, and smacks her hard on the ass with an open palm.

She gasps, digs her fingers into the bedding, braces herself for more impact; by the sixth, she is grinding against him, panting and whining, her ass an angry red. She’s drenched in slick, and he’s hard again, so he grabs her ass roughly with both hands and thrusts a few times before spanking her a seventh time.

“Fuck daddy, yes daddy,” she moans, pushing eagerly into his thrusts; she fucks herself on his cock even when he’s still, even when his hands come down hard on her already irritated skin. “Mmh. I’m bad, daddy. I’m bad and I’m not perfect, but you still love me.” He exhales deeply, because he knows his girl well, and he knows this means she will be dropping, hard, as soon as she comes; he mentally prepares for the worst, just in case.

“You’re not bad, sweetheart, you are so good; not just to me, but to everyone.” He moves one hand to her hip, holds her steady, then grabs the chain with the other hand and pulls her closer while he pounds inside her. “And no, you’re not perfect, but you’re perfect for daddy; you’re smart, and sweet, and so beautiful, and I love you.” He drapes himself over her back, tugs on the chain so she will meet him for a gentle kiss, their lips so soft in contrast to the way their bodies meet, eager for release. “I love you, baby. Come and let daddy take care of you. Daddy will make it all better.”

She reaches back for him, covers his hand with hers and takes a deep, shuddering breath; it’s only a matter of time before the tears fall, and he would like to be holding her by then, so he curls his hand around to rub at her clit, murmurs reassurances and repeats that he’s got her, and she comes trembling, gasping beneath him.

He kisses her shoulders, thrusts a few more times and then pulls out to come on her hot, marked ass; breathless, he eases her body down onto the bed, leans up to brush her hair back and unbuckle the collar, sets it aside.

“That’s it, sweet girl. Time to rest and let daddy take care of you. You did so well for me, baby. You gave me everything; I will be so careful with it.” He squeezes his eyes shut, feels so much emotion for the sensitive, thoughtful, incredible woman beneath him it makes his chest ache. He brings a hand to her ass, rubs his come in, knows that it stings—but they both like this, and he knows she will expect it, would feel somehow inadequate if he didn’t. He presses a kiss to her lower back. “I’m going to get you some water, good girl. Amazing, special girl. Be right back.”

He grabs a pillow, brings it to her head and lifts it up so she’s pressed comfortably against it, then gives her a peck on the cheek and heads to the kitchen for water and a snack. When he returns, she’s clutching the pillow, turned to face the door so she can see him enter. He pulls her close, sits her up enough to give her a few sips of water, then sets down the glass and holds her against his chest, soft and shivering slightly in his arms.

“I know we just had a bath earlier, but would you like another? Or a shower?” He tugs the blanket loose and wraps it around them, rocks her a little. Gently removing the ponytail holder from her hair, he shakes it loose with his fingers, rubs her throat where the collar left a slight indentation. “Sweet, owned girl, I will give you anything you need, always. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

She cries, clutching at him, and he soothes her, squeezes her, moves his hands through her hair and brushes the tears off of her face; when the sobbing slows, he reaches carefully for tissues on the bedside table, dries her eyes and helps her blow her nose, then gives her more water. She looks a little better after drinking half the glass, so he convinces her to take a couple bites of food, rubs her sore ass with a soft hand.

“Can we shower? And then more of this?” she asks, just a whisper, and he nods and leans in for some slow, sweet presses of lips. Her fingers card through his hair, and he presses a hand to her cheek. “Thank you, daddy. I’m so grateful for you.”

“I’m grateful for you, too, baby. The world just isn’t right when you’re upset—when I can’t find that brilliant smile.” It’s not quite brilliant, but the corner of her mouth does curve up for him, which he considers a good sign. “Let’s go get cleaned up and then I’ll hold you until you’re sick of me,” he teases. He unwraps them and gets off the bed with her in his arms.

“Could never be sick of you ever. Perfect daddy, perfect man.” He shoots her a look, something like yeah right but not too self-deprecating, and she cuddles closer. “Okay, perfect for me, anyway. Strong, gentle owner daddy I know I can trust with everything.”

They shower—she practically purrs when he scrubs her head with shampoo, when he combs conditioner through her hair with his fingers—and slip into pajamas, and he takes the comforter to the laundry room and grabs the spare, wraps her up tight and pulls her close, hugs and kisses and talks to her about everything and nothing until she’s ready for some dinner and a movie on the couch.

She thanks him for everything he did to help her through it, but it’s really his pleasure; it’s where he finds his value, and he tells her so. Because she can’t wear the collar to work, he makes a stop on his lunch break a week later, sneaks into a jewelry store, and buys her a ring.

There is no room to inscribe his initials, but his intentions are heavily implied.

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #request #prompt

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bemused-writer · 6 years ago

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VNC Chapter 38.5 Meta

There was so much packed into this chapter! I am very excited... At any rate, here there be spoilers!

The first thing I want to go over is the demonic vampiric kiss because this is actually becoming a theme now.

In my last review I was talking about the similarity between Naenia trying to kiss Noé and Naenia trying to kiss Chloé and how this is usually associated with demons sealing a deal or with weddings where you exchange bits of your soul with a kiss.

Well, now we have another parallel only this time it’s between Naenia kissing Chloé (chapter 38.5) and Vanitas kissing Jeanne (chapter 4). The two scenes are visually very similar for starters but before each event we see the person on the receiving end lose their power:

Both Chloé and Jeanne find themselves suddenly unable to thwart someone they normally wouldn’t have any trouble with at all and my theory is that Naenia and Vanitas are using a similar power (though Vanitas’s would stem from Vanitas of the Blue Moon while Naenia’s would be inherent).

This also emphasizes, to me, that Vanitas kissing Jeanne wasn’t just ... some random inclination. We know Vanitas of the Blue Moon was obsessed with Jeanne. We know Naenia, a powerful vampire, has the ability to halt Chloé in her tracks. Could this be indicating that there really is something wrong with Vanitas outside of already acknowledged misogyny? This could be further evidence that Vanitas really is switching personalities, that we aren’t just seeing him but someone else’s imprint on him. If so, it’s got to be his mark of possession that is causing it.

It’s something to keep an eye on at the very least but Vanitas’s kiss was reminiscent of Naenia’s ability, the ability that could very likely be messing with a vampire’s name or soul. I don’t think Vanitas was quite capable of that with Jeanne (unless we start to see otherwise) but symbolically I think that was exactly what he was going for.

We should also consider when Vanitas said this: “The onset of her illness is widening the area she can influence, and she’s pulling in every living creature within reach.”

I think that illness was caused by Naenia when she kissed her. Chloé was bleeding afterwards and only lost control afterwards as well, so whatever Naenia did to her it was potent.

Another thing I wonder about is Vanitas’s word use here:

Naenia has forced the “onset” on Chloé. “Onset” either means “the beginning of something” or an “assault or attack.” Either would make sense here but I’m inclined to think it means the beginning of what comes next: the destruction of the surrounding area. I can’t quite make out the Japanese text here, so if anyone has some further insight let me know!

We also finally have Naenia’s identify 100% confirmed: she is the queen, specifically Queen Faustina. I still have to wonder who the individual lying in the bed that Loki was talking to was though. I mean, is she dead? Is Naenia a wandering spirit? But if that’s the case how was she given physical form...?

Also, so far this means Naenia is not Vanitas of the Blue Moon as I had originally guessed. Of course, we don’t know for certain if VotBM is even dead. We see Misha in a flashback screaming at Vanitas for killing her but ... how dead is she? Perhaps she has merged with our Vanitas in some way...?

Still, Naenia, and therefore Queen Faustina, is ridiculously powerful. Actually, Queen Faustina seems a lot more powerful than Naenia:

She knocked Jean-Jacques aside without even a glance at him. Meanwhile, Naenia herself has to steal names in order to do much of anything. But! Something Vanitas said makes me wonder if there’s some kind of difference: “Chloé d’Apchier’s malnomen protects her by generating a sealed space.”

This seems to suggest that malnomen can be independent from the vampire, which would explain why Chloé seemed so unaffected by being cursed. Perhaps that is what’s going on with the queen as well? Naenia is both a part and separate from her? Once she’s destablilized, Naenia doesn’t recall anything whatsoever:

She’s less powerful now but Chloé is still very much a problem: she’s inadvertently destroying everything in the area.

Moving on to Vanitas and Noé now. A lot has happened with these two this chapter and there are a lot of parallels to previous chapters once more. For example, this idea of Vanitas falling and Noé being there to catch him, one of the biggest background themes of the series:

If we compare this to chapter 1 there are a lot of similarities visually. In chapter one, Vanitas is hit by some falling rubble, he loses consciousness, falls, and Noé leaps after him so he can save him. Here, Vanitas became ... lightheaded? He wasn’t obviously hit by anything at all. There’s some indication he’s still sick though, so that might be what did it. Either way, Noé goes leaping to his rescue once again without a second thought.

But there’s another parallel between this and chapter 1: both times, as Noé is falling, he’s greeted with a portent.

In chapter 1, the blue moon signifies he’s about to become very wrapped up in these matters, to say the least. It also features Teacher, remarking on how Noé isn’t the least bit afraid of it, to which Noé responds to his eyes it’s “quite beautiful.” In other words, as he’s falling he is given a sign: this person he’s chasing after is deeply connected to the blue moon and he’s going to get attached even if it doesn’t make any sense to, just as it makes no sense for a vampire of the red moon to chase after and admire the blue.

As for this chapter it’s less symbolic and more blatant. Noé is falling and trying to grab Vanitas once more. It takes a little longer this time but he still manages it. On the way, he’s greeted by a member of Charlatan who speaks an awful lot like Louis with the whole “You can’t save anyone” business. Maybe this is Louis; he seems to have an unexpected interest in Noé and wants him to hurry up and join them already. Who knows?

But the important bit (for now) is Noé is being given another sign: he can’t save Vanitas forever. Personally, I can’t help but wonder what Mochizuki is going to do in the end. Having the message of the series be “you can’t save everyone” is a harsh one (albeit true) and it would really change who Noé is as a person. Would she really go for that...?

At any rate, we’re spared having to deal with that for the time being because Noé manages to save him once more.

I also just want to point out that Noé is in business/battle mode once more. He’s making sure Vanitas is okay but he’s not exactly gentle about it:

Definitely reminiscent of the catacombs arc once more. XD

Anyway, Vanitas definitely doesn’t seem to be doing well as we can see from Noé’s observation here:

So, his health seems iffy at best, I’d say and Naenia definitely had an effect on him. I think the sheer force of her ability, the strain of what they’re going to have to do to win, the fact he knows how hopeless the situation appears, is all starting to pile up, not to mention he was pretty ill only a few chapters ago.

Another parallel to the catacombs arc is that Vanitas doesn’t tell Noé what he knows until it’s a bit too late. The other problem is that Vanitas is often vague and Noé dislikes that as well but I digress.

All of this leads to what I would say is hands down the most honest sentiment Vanitas has made this so far in this series.

“Just how many times do you think I’ve nearly been killed by vampires?”

I mean, the fact he’s even telling Noé any of this is a testament to how frustrated and unwell he is; these are some of Vanitas’s most personal feelings. He told Noé once he thinks humans and vampires are equally rotten but I had wondered about that. Turns out, Vanitas does have issues with vampires specifically and that makes a lot more sense. Vampires murdered his family, which led to him being stuck with Moreau, which led him to being marked by a vampire, which may have then led to him having some other issues we don’t know about since we don’t know the full extent of what the mark of possession even does. Along the way he’s been abused by vampires and it’s all left a mark. As much as he likes Noé there’s still a part of him that can’t let go of what he’s learned in life: you can’t fully trust them.

There’s probably also the more basic stigma between vampires and humans to consider as well. Judging by how vampires treat dhampirs there may be some actual truth to what Vanitas is saying. Many vampires do not view humans all that highly and probably wouldn’t listen to them. I think this is all a big part of why Vanitas tries (but fails) to maintain some kind of distance between him and Noé. I’m curious to see how that continues from here on.

Anyway, one of his examples is Ruthven and we all know that Noé completely disagrees with how flippant Vanitas can be with his life, so I wasn’t surprised to see that lead to another headbutt. XD

But once again, Noé shows Vanitas that he’s different. Noé doesn’t forcibly drink his blood, Noé doesn’t belittle his desire for revenge, and now Noé proclaims to trust what Vanitas tells him.

Is it any wonder Vanitas is having a hard time knowing what to do with this? XD Noé goes against everything he thinks he knows is true and after awhile anyone would grow tired of having to constantly reevaluate their own values and belief system. His declaration that Noé “really ticks him off” and the fact he’s kicking him (I mean, Noé started that with the headbutts, so...) is all symbolic of how hard a time he’s having with him. He doesn’t know what to make of Noé whatsoever but I am curious to see if he starts confiding his hunches to him from now on. That will let us know if any of this stuck.

After all that exertion yelling at Noé, Vanitas appears back to normal according to Noé:

It’s all very “Amok Time.”

Anyway, if there’s one thing Vanitas knows for sure it’s that Noé refuses to give up about anything, probably the one thing he knows about Noé he’s semi comfortable with.

Of course, now we have Roland and the chasseurs finally joining the fray and I’m very curious to see how all that turns out! I’m sure Roland will dish out hugs or something equally repugnant to Vanitas. At least Noé will be happy. XD I’m also looking forward to finally seeing how he gets along with Astolfo; that’s been something I’ve wondered about for a while now!

#vanitas no carte #vnc spoilers #Bemused's post #long post

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trippyl0ngstocking · 6 years ago

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@euphemesia was kind enough to link me some Renly Baratheon meta, and I am choosing to reciprocate by commenting on their links. I always enjoy sinking my teeth into some ASOIAF meta. First up is this one: https://zaldrizer-sovesi.tumblr.com/post/124948396552/renly-and-the-sieges-of-storms-end

By @zaldrizer-sovesi

This post discusses how Renly’s childhood, and in particular the siege of Storm’s End led him to make the decisions he makes in the series proper. This is good work. Excellent work, in fact. I highly recommend it. So this isn’t a critique or rebuttal(I think it’s a sound analysis; there’s nothing in it I would dispute), just a few rambling comments.

The observation that Renly was someone who “always the world as a fundamentally insecure place” due to the uncertainty of his childhood is a good one. It actually reminds me a bit of Theon, another character who had an uncertain childhood devoid of unconditional love, and who had a desperate hunger for acclaim. Theon(pre-ADWD Theon, I mean) was someone who never had a fully developed, authentic identity. Throughout ACOK, we see him shift between so many identities, trying to be different things(Robb’s trusty right-hand man, prodigal son of the Iron Isles, tough Ironborn Raider, “Prince of Winterfell”, & he even briefly embraces the role of “Theon Turncloak” when he feels it is the only role available). We don’t get an intimate window into Renly, but I wonder if Renly too struggled with a lack of a sense of authentic identity.

In a recent debate, it was suggested to me that if Renly were really as ruthless and self-serving as all that, he would have taken Stannis’s offer(presumably his offer in Catelyn III ACOK to make Renly his heir if Renly bent the knee), and then have Stannis killed later. I pointed out that by this time, Renly has already cast his die. He has by this point assembled a massive army, and crowned himself. He can just have Stannis killed in the battle. I also suggested that hubris would have made that a rather unpalatable option for Renly(having to renounce his crown even temporarily, and bow and scrape and pretend to suck up to Stannis).

Well, @zaldrizer-sovesi discusses a similar counterfactual. Theirs’ is a much more plausible version of the same general idea. Rather, that Renly could have just bowed to Stannis in the first place(like, late AGOT-early ACOK timeframe I presume), help Stannis capture the throne, and then have Stannis killed in a “tragic accident” so that Renly can inherit(This is much more plausible than the counterfactual I debated since by the time Renly meets with Stannis in ACOK, he has already crowned himself, and assembled a huge army of supporters that far outnumbers Stannis’s. If he was going to play the long game of bending the knee to Stannis, he would have already done so by this point. At that point in the game it’s far simpler to just make sure Stannis dies in the battle. That was part of Renly’s plan, a plan that was succeeding excellently at that point. So why change it?). In any case, I suggested “hubris” as a contributing factor to such options being unappealing to Renly. But I think this piece more precisely identifies the trait as the *desire for acclaim*. It isn’t incorrect to say Renly has hubris, but “desire for acclaim” is more specific and to the point. I think the author of the piece makes a good case that it would have been a better scheme for Renly to support Stannis, and then quietly have him assassinated once he gains the throne, and furthermore that Renly doesn’t go with this option because of his basic drive for acclaim. And that “it’s more likely that Renly cares more about being seen winning than he actually does in having power and using it for something”. This is something that I strongly agree with.

As far as people giving Renly too much credit as an effective schemer, I think it is a good point(and I have discussed Renly’s political skills in the past, so I think I’m safe from being accused of giving him too little credit in that department). I will note that people in the fandom sometimes give various political schemers besides Renly too much credit in the same way. Littlefinger and Tywin especially. There are brilliantly clever political schemers in ASOIAF, but GRRM took care to give them weaknesses and blind spots based on their personality flaws(LF’s sociopathy can manifest itself in him taking unnecessary risks and behaving recklessly. Tywin’s extreme pride can lead him to overreact, or act far outside the bounds of proportionate response, for example his reaction to Tyrion’s kidnapping). Doran Martell doesn’t seem to get overrated by the fandom as much IME(except for believers in the “Great Dornish Conspiracy” theories), but he is also a good example in that his cautious nature and tendency to procrastinate action lead to his schemes being as overripe as his blood oranges. My point being that zaldrizer-sovesi’s reading of Renly’s flaws fit right in with the pattern of all the clever political schemers in ASOIAF having major blind spots, and despite being clever, aren’t always rational actors.

Lastly, zaldrizer-sovesi says that

“Instead, [Renly] works hard against his own interests in fighting Stannis and joining up with the Tyrells. Letting go of a grudge is one thing, but Renly’s reliance on Mace Tyrell is something else entirely. There’s something there, with Renly moving against Stannis with the backing of the man who did that to them. Did he, somewhere in his little kid brain, blame Stannis for his refusal to surrender to Mace? Was it about taking ownership of the experience by using Mace in what he sees as an imitation of Robert’s Rebellion, or winning Mace’s favorite child away from him? “

As I was digging through A Search of Ice and Fire looking for quotes for my recent debates about Renly, I noticed a little detail from AGOT that I hadn’t caught before. When Ned talks to Tobho Mott, Mott brags about a suit of armor he just had made for Renly. It’s green enamel with golden antlers on the helm. Of course, I remembered that Catelyn observes Renly wearing the Baratheon sigil in the colors of House Tyrell during her stint as envoy in ACOK. A potent bit of symbolism that is no doubt intentional on the part of the ever-image-conscious Renly. But he was actually wearing the Tyrell colors far earlier than I realized. That quote was from relatively early in AGOT. It struck me as a fascinating little detail, but I wasn’t sure what to make of it, except that obviously Renly was deep in the pockets of the Tyrells even in early AGOT. But, really, why is Renly wearing Tyrell colors, either in AGOT or ACOK? I think it signals to the reader how dependent Renly is on the Tyrells. But this does not seem to be a common thing in Westeros. Like, I doubt Robert wore the Lannister colors. But if we take the ball of zaldrizer-sovesi’s analysis and run with it, perhaps Renly’s wearing of the Tyrell colors is a manifestation of his desire to indentify with the Tyrells. His formative experience in the Siege Of Storm’s End was the uncertainty, instability, deprivation, and the lack of unconditional love that characterized Renly’s childhood generally(while I am quite certain that Stannis really did love Renly, Stannis is a deeply unwell person who is almost incapable of showing affection), and on the enemy side, just outside the walls of Storm’s End Mace Tyrell held feasts and parties in plain view. Perhaps this led Renly to identify with the enemy instead of the beseiged Baratheon forces, as a way of coping. Renly’s repeated wearing of the Tyrell colors may be an expression of Renly’s identification with the “enemy”, the Tyrells. You can even parallel this to Robert. Robert identified strongly with the Starks. Since he lost his own parents in such a traumatic and tragic way, it was less painful to ignore his own broken family and instead indentify with the Starks, a tight knit and loving family. I’ve even heard it suggested that Robert’s infatuation with Lyanna had more to do with what she *represented* -becoming a part of the Stark family and Ned’s brother by law, than what Lyanna actually *was*. This makes a very neat parallel with Renly. Robert and Renly both rejected their actual families and adopted “better” families that weren’t plagued by the tradegy and dysfunction that troubled House Baratheon. Stannis on the other hand, kept trying to win Robert’s affection and just became very salty and resentful when he failed.

#asoiaf meta #renly baratheon

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jesusdoesntlikeyourattitude · 8 years ago

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One

My wrists hurt, inexplicably. Perhaps I slept funny, funny peculiar. Last night I dreamt of a cramped police cell, my hands folded behind my back. My eyes are glazed and the mountain of coffee cups perch precariously on my desk, ready to topple with the slightest of nudges. In my past life I was a rapist, or a traitor. Maybe I raped the queen, I definitely did something vicious and evil; it’s the only explanation for this existence. In this life I’m just a poor sap who ended up in the wrong job, with the wrong people, fantasising about tropical beaches and statuesque, tanned women serving me drinks in coconut shells. I talk to myself a lot. I used to wonder if I was unwell, but now I just blame it on the pills.

There’s a lady who often sits behind me. She’s mid-thirties, a couple of kids and a bored husband. She isn’t attractive but every time she leans over my shoulder to help me with an account I feel my dick get hard. She knows this; she plays to it, bending over in front of me and discussing her absent sex life within earshot. She knows I want to fuck her. I haven’t had physical contact with a woman since my girlfriend left me a lifetime ago, and because of that I will fuck my colleague at some point, probably in the toilets on a wet and windy lunch break. It’ll be disappointing and I’ll have to move to the other side of the office to escape any awkward exchanges. It’s the only reason I’ve abstained thus far, that I like my spot. Its right next to the window so I can gaze mournfully at people out on the street, free of gainful employment, begging for scraps. How I long to be in their torn and tatty shoes. At the very least they have a dog to keep them company, as much vitamin D as they need and the occasional rock of crack to see them through the night. I’ve got a five figure income, a pension I hopefully won’t live long enough to claim and haemorrhoids. I bring my own cushion into work; it’s a source of mystery and gossip throughout the office. Maybe one day before I leave I’ll show them all why I need it. Just drop my pants and give them a full uncensored view of my discomfort.

I’ve been here for five long years. That’s the same sentence handed out to drug dealers. I knew from day one I’d chosen the wrong career path. I would’ve made quadruple the amount I clear peddling coke to teenagers.

I lock my work station and walk to the toilet to take a piss. Some cretin I once asked for a lighter from tries to engage me in conversation as I unzip my fly. It’s unacceptable. I grunt and focus on emptying my bowels. There should be a sign on the door instructing people to shut the fuck up the minute they walk in. It’s a sanctuary, not a nightclub. If I wanted to talk to you whilst I had my dick in my hand I’d ask you out for a drink.

I sit back down, and as I do my boss approaches. If this place really is hell then she is the devil, dressed in Primark, attaching her action plans and personal development programs to her pitchfork and shoving them so far up my pained backside that I’m coughing up numbers and figures and pie charts all over my loafers. She wears glasses that magnify her wonky eyes, tiny little spongy balls that bounce around inside her malformed skull. Her hair is like straw, tied back to her head with garden twine. She has a lisp that grates on me so much I’d offer to pay for her speech therapy if she wasn’t such a cunt. The only thing I want to give her is a new super drug I’ve invented in my mind that makes her womb barren. I call her the lemming, on account of her being a small rat like creature. She tells me I was late for work this morning. I already knew that, I had a joint before I started and couldn’t tear myself away from the news. Some giddy little prick giving his smarmy views on the days current affairs is like opiates to me. She tells me to buck my ideas up, that if I’m late again tomorrow she’ll be forced to act, because it’s becoming too much of a regular occurrence. I nod solemnly, without saying a word. None of the words I would like to say to her seem appropriate in this setting. She leaves; I daydream about what it would feel like to sink a kitchen knife in between her shoulder blades.

My friend enters the building. He’s a charming, affable loner, perennially dressed all in black and with a penchant for Canadian electro-metal music. Everyone at the company thinks he’s weird, I consider him the only other person like me in a ten mile radius. He takes his usual seat just opposite mine, and smiles sweetly.

“Morning Desmond” I whisper. Our conversations are conducted at the lowest possible decibel level, so as to avoid anyone else interfering, or actually clocking on the nature of what we discuss, as more often than not the topics would be deemed taboo, or discipline worthy. We talk about a book I earlier recommended him, on a subject matter we both find deeply interesting. Desmond is what some might call ‘a troubled soul’. I’ve always found it offensive that the human race has an unwavering ability to categorise others into either good or bad. Sometimes it isn’t that simple. Desmond isn’t a bad person, but his thoughts are dark, a lot darker than your average young adult conjures. He isn’t particular good either, but he’s been the only consistent friend I’ve had in this place. He mentioned once before that he sees me as something of a kindred spirit, which alerted me to my own shortcomings. Our lives have been parallel. Both lost our parents far too early, both mercilessly bullied throughout our formative years, both vulnerable. We turned out remarkably similar. But whilst my daydreaming can be on the verge of homicidal, Desmonds daydreaming is disturbed. When I introduced him to anarchism, he introduced me to the occult. We have a bad cop bad cop relationship, and it makes the hours pass faster. His voice is soft, unlike his exterior. A unit of a man, possessing a body built to bring pain and suffering upon anyone who should cross him. What was once a source of mental anguish is now a key component in his arsenal. He doesn’t suffer fools easily, and his weight and power stop him from having to. Even the lemming is scared of him, and leaves him to conduct his daily business s in peace. His eyes are wide as he talks about the book, about the things it’s taught him and, indirectly, about his plan. To the untrained ear his words are mumbled and indecipherable. I understand every garbled syllable, but the women that sit either side of him are clueless. They simply sip their camomile tea and talk to each other through him about Coronation Street. I’ve never watched the show but I know everything about thanks to Gillian and Mary, it’s like their porn. I imagine them masturbating to flickering images of Ken Barlows sweater vest, climaxing just as the credits roll, then it’s back to a cross-stitch art piece of a kitten chasing a ball of string. Then I daydream of their cold, dead bodies as I stand over them. Desmond put that image in my head weeks ago, and it’s been pretty difficult to shift. The thing about Desmond, the thing about him that intrigues me as much as it frightens me, is that he’s dangerous.

Desmond has been talking about his plan for the last eighteen months or so. It started as idle musings and has snowballed to its current state, not yet fully formed but fairly advanced. He speaks of it often, dropping it into any conversation he can, except for between working hours of course. This time spent making allusions to it without actually mentioning it. Not that Mary and Gill or any of the other ladies of a certain age would have any fucking idea what was going on even if he detailed it out to them. They could have Kim Jong Il sat across from them explaining his nuclear programme and plans for global domination and they’d still try to talk to him about whatever wank was on ITV last night. Still, he is whispered and careful. Though a friend, he frightens me. And though I should’ve tried to stop him, or alerted someone about his plans, I haven’t. If it makes me an accessory then so be it, I’m too tired and depressed to care.

The clock ticks over. It’s time to go home. I bid farewell to Desmond and walk through the automatic doors, passed the troll of a security guard who spends more time leaching at the young girls than he doors providing any kind of security, and into the pinkish glow of the autumnal night sky.

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