#how to commit a hypothetical crime

[mkstrigidae]

Apparently, the solution to my APWH writer's block was just opening up a new word document and rewriting the whole damn next chapter.

[nanami-is-nanamean]

in a world where everything is okay, i can just imagine gojo being a horrifically great babysitter for megumi and being unofficially adopted into the fushiguro family like

toji hates his guts, and gojo hates his guts too—but fushimama is so nice and kind, and finds him to be an absolute darling, and toji will always fold to his wifes whims every time—so toji puts up with the annoying blue-eyed menace

at the very least, he can take solace in the fact that baby megs also hates him, and fushimama has never seen her boys so cooperative and together as a family unit before—despite it being at gojos expense lmao

as much as she wants to break up their mini-fights and bickerings, she doesn't because it is somehow enrichment for the three of them

she always manages to wrangle gojo to stay just a bit longer for dinners on the weekends, despite him insisting that he doesn't want to be a bother. the smile that spreads on her face when toji invites him to stay for dinner for the first time—toji would do anything for that smile. even put up with gojo teasing him for being so down bad for her LMAO

[transgenderpolls]

[SUBMISSION] feel free to delete this if it's too morbid: trans ppl who want top surgery, would you kill a random stranger for it? you won't get caught, and you can pick the method. 1) yes 2) depends (elaborate in a non-legally-actionable way) 3) never 4) not applicable (see results)

bruh. come on

[exasperatedoctopus]

The funniest part of the Menagerie is Spock single-handedly conducting his own court martial with complete sincerity. He might have betrayed everyone aboard to help Pike, but he’s going to be a gentleman about it if it’s the last thing he does

[kaiser1ns]

#. URGENT NONSENSE HOTLINE

featuring 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 ıllı. itoshi sae, michael kaiser, oliver aiku, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei

fluff + slight suggestive. calling your cop boyfriend while he's in the middle of work, and he thinks it's super important, only for you to ask him the most ridiculous and random questions.

characters aged up to 21 and above. rin and shidou are fathers.

ITOSHI SAE

The police radio crackled in the background as Sae was sitting in his squad car, a rare moment of calm during his patrol. His phone buzzed, and the screen lit up with your name. It was unusual for you to call during his shift, so naturally, his heart skipped a beat hoping nothing happened to you.

He immediately answered, his tone calm. Your boyfriend was concerned more than anything, and if something was wrong, God forbid what was going to happen to the person who dared to hurt you. “What is it? Are you okay?”  

You, completely oblivious to his worries, immediately started talking cheerfully and giggling “Sae! Do you think dinosaurs should still exist? Wouldn’t it be awesome if they came back? Imagine us walking a T-Rex like a dog!”  

Sae blinked, deadpan. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. You could almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to process what you just said.  

“...Are you serious?” he finally asked, his voice dangerously calm. Oh, no. You're obsessed with dinosaurs again, and that wasn't good…at all.

“Of course I’m serious! Think about how cool it would be—like, riding a Triceratops to work or flying with a Pterodactyl!” you babbled on, completely oblivious to his growing annoyance.  

You couldn't see but your boyfriend rolled his eyes as he rubbed his temple, leaning back in his seat. His sharp tongue couldn’t be contained any longer.  

“You know they made Jurassic Park for that reason, right? And spoiler alert: it didn’t end well.”  

“But that’s just a movie!” you argued. “We could make it work this time! Think of all the science we have now!”  

“You called me—while I’m working—to ask about dinosaurs,” Sae interrupted, his tone flat. “Dinosaurs. You’re aware I have actual, real-life problems to deal with… Like thefts and, you know, crime?”  

“...So is that a no on the dinosaur pets?” you teased, voice now full of sadness and disappointment.

He sighed, muttering under his breath in frustration but unable to help the small, begrudging smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky I love you. Now hang up before I block your number.”  

As the call ended, he shook his head, muttering to himself, “Dinosaurs. Unbelievable.” Still, the thought of you having fun with what you will call your "pet" lingered in his mind for the rest of his shift—and he hated how it made him go to the nearest store to buy you a dinosaur plushie.

MICHAEL KAISER

Kaiser was in the middle of gearing up for an undercover mission, his shirt tossed over the back of a chair as he adjusted the strap of his tactical vest. When his phone buzzed with your name on the screen, he hesitated for just a moment before answering. Worry flickered in his eyes—it wasn’t often you called during his work hours unless it was important.

"Mein Schatz, what’s wrong?" he asked immediately, his voice laced with concern. 

You, however, had other plans. “My love, if I hypothetically steal something, would you be the one to handcuff me?”

There was a silence as an answer when he blinked, momentarily thrown off by the absurdity of the question. A smirk began to spread across his face as he leaned back in his chair, half-naked and amused. “Engel, you’ve already stolen something very valuable.”

Your eyes widened on the other end of the line. You stopped twirling your hair, your voice suddenly tinged with worry as though you'd accidentally committed grand theft without realizing it. “I… I did? What did I steal?” 

Kaiser chuckled, the kind of low, teasing laugh that made your cheeks heat up even through the phone. “Yeah, you already stole my heart.”

Your indignant sputtering was music to his ears. He leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table and grinning like the cocky devil he was. “And didn’t we test those handcuffs enough already?" he added, his smirk growing. "Remember last night? You were so curious if they were strong enough to hold you—"

“Goodbye, baby! Good luck with your work!” you interrupted, your voice high-pitched and flustered. 

Kaiser laughed out loud as you hung up, shaking his head in pure delight. Tucking his phone into his pocket, he muttered to himself, “You’re too cute, mein Liebling. Too cute.” With that, he pulled on his shirt, ready to finish work and show you what happens to those who steal and don't admit it.

OLIVER AIKU

Oliver Aiku, a tall, well-built figure with a teasing smirk and hundreds of charms, was leaning against the desk in the bustling precinct. Talking with his partner Sendou, they were deep in conversation about the latest case—nothing too serious, just the usual for the two of them.

The Captain’s voice echoed across the room, pulling him from the moment. "Aiku! You've got a call!"

Oliver rolled his eyes, not exactly thrilled to be disturbed right now in the middle of his break, but he stood up anyway, still chuckling at whatever Sendou had just said about the girl he was trying to woo over. He knew exactly who was calling. A sly smile crept across his face as he picked up the phone.

"Hey, babe. Everything okay?" he said in his usual teasing tone, his eyes never leaving Sendou’s curious gaze.

"Oliver! There's a giant spider on the wall!" Your voice came through the phone and you were more than afraid and before he could even process the words, there was a loud screech from your side of the line. "AH!"

He couldn’t help but smirk. "Girl problems, you know..." he muttered under his breath, shrugging it off, but Sendou was already looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "What? What’s going on?" his partner asked, clearly intrigued by the other’s business like always.

The tall man leaned back against the desk, casually placing the phone on his shoulder. "It’s my girlfriend, you know? She’s having a bit of a crisis over a spider or something. It's all good, no need to panic."

He could hear you, being out of breath, obviously running away from the spider. "Oliver! It’s huge! What do I do?!" He couldn't help but laugh. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he did, but come on, it was just a spider, you have seen bigger things.

"Doll," he said in a smooth, teasing voice, his grin widening. "Calm down. It's just a tiny lil' spider. I’m sure it’s probably scared of you."

He heard you scream again in the background, and he could already picture you manically pacing around, maybe already booking a plane ticket. “Just grab a slipper or something, take it down like the badass I know you are."

"I’M NOT GOING NEAR IT!" you shouted back, your voice full of distress. Oliver snickered, turning to Sendou, who was still waiting for an answer. "Listen to that. She’s on a whole new level of dramatic. Gotta love her."

He leaned into the phone, his tone turning low and flirtatious. "But, don’t worry, baby, when I get home, I’ll take care of that spider... and you, too."

ITOSHI RIN

It was supposed to be a quiet, ordinary day for one of the top detectives in the department. His desk was a mess of paperwork, and he was deep in the grind—cross-referencing statements, signing reports, and filling out forms. He hated the tedious parts of the job, but he was used to it. Nothing could disturb his focus; nothing but—

Vibration.

He glanced at his phone. Your name flashed on the screen. His first instinct was to ignore it, but a nagging thought held him back. You never called during work unless something was wrong. Still, with a sigh, he answered.

“Is it normal for Mommy to have blood on her stomach? Is my little brother a monster?”

Rin froze. His first reaction was to feel a pang of panic. Blood? His mind raced as he pictured the worst possible scenarios. He knew that voice—your child was watching too many horror movies again, getting himself all worked up.

“Calm down, okay? Where’s your mother?” Rin asked, trying not to sound too angry or demanding with asking questions, he knew how the suspects got away.

“She was in the kitchen and now she has red all over her stomach…” the child explained, sounding more frantic with each passing second.

Rin’s heart skipped a beat as he stood up from his desk, knocking papers to the floor. This can’t be happening, you were in danger and your child sounded more than scared. He needed to be back home immediately. “Stay where you are, do not move,” he ordered, his voice low and commanding. Turned to his boss, not waiting for a response. “I need to leave. Now.”

Without waiting for permission, he bolted out the door.

His pulse was racing as he sped home, each second dragging on longer than the last. His thoughts were consumed with worry for you and the baby, a fear deeper than any threat he faced in his career. When he burst through the door and rushed to the kitchen, his breath hitched. He saw you—sleeping on the counter, exhausted, a slight stain of red near your stomach. His eyes widened. Was she hurt?

But there was no blood. No danger. Just the remnants of a cake you had been baking, and the food coloring had created the illusion of blood. You’d passed out from exhaustion, nothing more. Your husband sighed in relief, but he heard a small voice behind him.

“Is Mommy alive?”

Rin turned to find your child, wide-eyed and still nervous. The detective gently shook you awake, his hand soft and careful to avoid disturbing the baby to pop out any minute. You blinked groggily, confusion was written all over your face, but then— “The cake!” you exclaimed, ignoring the love of your life entirely. Of course, your priorities had always been… unique.

"Yeah, the cake," he muttered under his breath, trying to keep a straight face as he helped you sit up, ready to take the blame for your child's next internet ban with the horror media.

SHIDOU RYUSEI

Blasting music in the police car, sirens wailing, Shidou Ryusei chased down some random robbers, caught them, and hauled them to the station. He was a man of contradictions—a protector of the law who lived for thrills. Sure, he’d had a rough past and even served time as a teen, but hey, life’s full of surprises. One thing was certain, though: not everyone could claim you as their wife, his beautiful partner who was currently calling him for the sixth time.

“Pick up the damn phon—” Your annoyed voice hit his ears as he answered. Meanwhile, he was busy munching on candy he’d swiped from the twins earlier. “What’s up, babe?”

“Shidou Ryusei, are you out of your mind?” Uh-oh, here it came. Normally, your calls were filled with anecdotes about your day, theories about the universe, or updates about the twins’ shenanigans. This, however, sounded serious.

“Hello, my beautiful, amazing, angelic wife~” he drawled, mouth still full. He could practically see your angry, adorable expression through the phone.

“I’ll show you what IS amazing... Are you crazy?!”

“Always. Why even ask?” he teased.

“Why did you took the kids from kindergarten, witht he police car while blasting Gangnam style?” Oh, that. Well, you asked him to pick them up since you were running late, “What’s the problem? Elaborate, doll,”

“The problem?” you huffed through the line, voice rising as he heard someone laughing in the background, probably your kids enjoying your reactions as much as your husband did—some genes are pretty strong. “You traumatized every kid at the kindergarten! The teacher called me, Ryusei! The teacher! She said she’s never seen a police escort used so... recklessly!”

He was still chewing the candy he so kindly borrowed, only half-listening. “Reckless? Nah, that’s called style, babe. They’ll remember it forever. They should thank me for making their day cool.”

“Style?!” you screeched, and he almost felt bad. “Blasting Gangnam Style, sirens wailing, and you had the audacity to throw candy out the window like some... cop Santa?!”

Now he did laugh, the sound loud enough to echo around the block. Some of the people nearby on the street gave him curious looks, but he waved them off. “What? It’s called multitasking. Besides, the twins loved it. They told me I’m their hero. How can I say no to my kids, huh? Their words, not mine, by the way.”

You groaned and for a second, he thought you might hang up. “You’re insufferable. Absolutely insufferable. And stop eating the kids’ candy!”

Caught mid-chew, Shidou smirked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I swear, Ryusei, if you don—”

“Love you, babe!” he interrupted, his tone cheerful. “And the kids love me too. Don’t forget that part. Now, I gotta go, official police business calls. You know, saving the world, keeping our streets cool.”

“Ryusei—!”

Click.

He hung up, a chuckle escaping as he leaned forward, unwrapping another candy. Moments like these reminded him how much he adored you, his firecracker of a wife, and the twins' choice for sweet treats.

©2024 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

I simply cannot stand how current Star Trek treats Section 31 as some hypothetical moral quandary.

“What if we needed a secret extrajudicial organization to commit crimes to protect us?” We already had one, it was the Cold War CIA, and do you know what it did? It instigated holy wars. It installed dictators. It authorized kill squads to make goods just a little bit cheaper. You’re asking a question that has already been answered and the answer was “When you give people a lot of power, zero accountability, a mission statement of doing awful things for ‘the right reasons’, and a mentality that people are either sheep to be controlled or wolves to be slain, they do not protect anyone. They just kill and hurt and destroy, and even the people they claim to protect just suffer all the more for it.”.

Section 31 was created when CIA declassifications made clear what had been done in our name and with our money. That’s why in its native DS9, its primary purpose was to be rejected as a concept and defeated by our protagonists, why the Federation has to be saved from its rampant, thoughtless cruelty. Section 31 is not a sci fi concept. It is not a “what if?”. It is an allegory for a very real organization and ideology that has harmed billions of people, that will take decades to root out and further decades, possibly even centuries, to heal from. It is evil, it was modeled on evil, and the impulse to defend or lighten it is not a politically neutral one. It has no place in the Star Trek future, just as it’s real world equivalents have no place in our society, and anyone who says otherwise is deceiving you or themselves.

Portraying Section 31 as morally grey or worse, necessary, is a lie. It is repackaged military propaganda used to justify and whitewash its real world equivalents by creating a fantasy where such an organization is anything but evil, to make it easier to sell that same fantasy in real life. I can accept and even enjoy moral quandaries and flawed characters in Star Trek. I will not accept being lied to.

[cupidsncheerios]

i wish viktor got a chance to interact with the zaun characters outside of his jesus state because like. dude he'd get along great with ekko

there's the obvious part where yknow, they're both genius inventors, they both start communes, and they're both working towards a better world for the undercity, but also like.

imagine the hypothetical timebomb jayvik double date.

like "so viktor, how'd you and jayce get together?"

"well i walked in on him about to kill himself and i talked him off the ledge, then we hung out for a bit and decided to commit crimes and do magic together"

"dude. you'll never guess how jinx and i got together"

[redheadlesbianfreak]

"Israel is more LGBTQ friendly than Palestine."

Let's say, that hypothetically, Israel is the most LGBTQ-friendly country on the entire planet. I STILL would be against them committing genocide. What they have done to Gaza is horrific and we should be talking about a ceasefire to prevent more innocent people from dying. But nah, people would rather shift the conversation over to something that's completely unrelated away from the war crimes the IDF is committing.

As a queer person who has lived in Texas and Mississippi her whole life, it has always disgusted me how gleeful some of you "progressives" act when something horrific happens to places you deem "conservative." Do you people not understand that every place has diversity, every place has LGBTQ people? People deserve to live full and happy and safe lives regardless of where they were born. There is nothing in the world that could ever justify the mass killings of innocent people.

[liquidstar]

look this site really is awful for ppl with OCD so i just wanna reassure anyone that you are not Tainted Forever for consuming a piece of media with questionable content. the fact that youre able to recognize it speaks to your critical thinking skills, which is good, certain depictions should be critiqued. but you dont need to ruminate on it to the point where you begin to feel guilty for simply witnessing gross or creepy writing choices. you dont have to vindicate yourself to the fictional tumblr discourser inside your head, saying that youre now a bad person bc you watched the wrong anime. your actual response to it still matters of course, but thats that and this is this. just seeing it is neutral, you didnt commit a thought crime. its literally fine.

IF YOU ARE USING THIS POST TO ONLY FURTHER YOUR STUPID PEDANTIC BLACK-AND-WHITE DISCOURSE TO GET A "GOCHA" OVER THE OTHER SIDE YOU ARE THE PROBLEM. DON'T USE OUR DISORDER TO VINDICATE YOUR BEHAVIOR. THOUGHT CRIMES ARENT REAL BUT ACTIONS STILL MATTER. PEOPLE WITH OCD ARE CAPABLE OF THINKING CRITICALLY ABOUT OUR ACTIONS AND RESPONSES, EVEN WITH INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS AND RUMINATIONS. TREATING US AS IF WE CANNOT, ONLY TO FORCE US TO USE YOUR STRINGENT UNNUANCED DISCOURSE OPINIONS ABOUT "PURITY CULTURE" (TRIGGERING TO THOSE WITH OCD) AS THE ONLY REASONABLE GUIDE DOES MORE TO EXACERBATE OUR OBSESSIONS THAN HELP US. YOU ARE THE ISSUE AS WELL. YOU ARE ALSO THE TUMBLR DISCOURSER INSIDE OUR HEADS. DO NOT USE US FOR YOUR DISCOURSE. WE ARE PEOPLE, NOT HYPOTHETICALS TO USE TO EXPLAIN IF YOUR FROZEN INCEST FANFICTION IS OKAY OR NOT. TREATING US AS IF WE CANNOT AUTONOMOUSLY HAVE OUR OWN OPINIONS ON WHEN MEDIA IS TANGIBLY HARMFUL IS ABLEIST. FORCING US TO ABIDE BY YOUR IN-GROUP'S SET OF UNEQUIVOCAL MORALS IS ABLEIST. ACTING AS THOUGH THE ONLY SOLUTION FOR US IS MINDLESS MEDIA CONSUMPTION IN WHICH "EVERY DEPICTION OF XYZ, NO MATTER HOW POORLY DONE OR EXPLOITATIVE, IS ALWAYS OKAY AND IF YOU DISAGREE YOURE ACTUALLY AN EVIL 'ANTI'" IS ABLEIST. THOSE ARE THE SAME BLACK-AND-WHITE MORALS THAT SEND US INTO OBSESSIVE SPIKES, BUT FLIPPED. A SET OF MORALS IN WHICH QUESTIONING THE IMPACT OF A PIECE OF WORK MAKES YOU AN "EVIL CONSERVATIVE PURITAN "ANTI"" DOES NOT HELP MORAL OCD.

YOU ARE THE DAMN TUMBLR DISCOUERSERS MAKING THIS SHIT WORSE FOR US! YOURE THE EXACT SAME BUT WITH FLIPPED BUZZWORDS! YOU'RE MISSING THE WHOLE DAMN POINT!

[a-very-tired-jew]

Something that has been rattling around in my brain since Oct 7th and the responses afterwards (and, let's be honest, I've been mulling over cause of work foe years due to true crime girlies) is that I don't think the majority of the public understands how criminal and terrorist outfits actually function.

It comes across as if the majority of people just imagine some hypothetical caricature of a person sitting in their lair doing "evil villain" fingers and going "Oh, I'm going to be so naughty today and do so much terror and crime" when that's not the case.

These are sophisticated organizations that have existed for decades with their own infrastructures and support staff. These outfits have personnel that run the gambit from IT to soldiers to doctors to management to press and so on. Every single one of them can, at one point or another, become a soldier and fight, but none of them are one trick ponies.

No organization survives and thrives being made up of one type of thing. It takes a complex supportive infrastructure made of multiple roles to keep anything going. We see this with everything from businesses to charity orgs to militaries.

It just so happens that organized crime and terrorist groups work in the same manner, they just also happen to do, you know, violent criminal/terrorist activities.

Myself and my colleagues all have stories about cases involving criminal outfits where the defense was something along the lines of "I was just an IT guy!" or other "benign" sounding position. But the reality is that the IT guy is still part of the outfit, knows what is going on, has a specific role to benefit it, and can and will pick up a weapon and commit a violent act just like any other member if instructed to or in the opportune moment.

The inability of the anti-Israel activists to engage in this thought and rely upon the "but they were a doctor!" or "but they were press!" as if it's some sort of holy symbol that defends against the reality that the individual in question was part of or associated with the outfit either tells us they don't understand this concept or refuse to because it would undermine their position.

[poemtoken]

So much of coach’s narrative comes down to agency and his continual loss of it and I find that devastating. His struggle to be autonomous is wrapped up in his rocky relationship to his identity which is why he chose nationals over Paul despite maybe knowing in the back of his mind that making the terrifying decision could change his life for the better, and assuming he is guaranteed return. He values what he perceives to be safety over happiness because it’s all he knows, only to be wrong, and ends up regretting it in retrospect. The crash puts him in a position where despite being able bodied his entire life, he suddenly has to rely on a group of teenagers, his students whom he’s expected to care for himself and feels a responsibility to, are now the ones taking care of him, and overseeing other survival tasks that despite his practical know-how, he finds himself unable to do.

As they spend more time in the wilderness it becomes apparent to him that the team doesn’t really want nor need his help or advice anymore and feeling, too, that he might be useless, he resigns himself to inaction and fails the team he was supposed to protect and support without meaning to because his control over them is fickle and dwindling anyway. He tries to intervene both times but is met with disagreement from the collective as two of his students die preventable deaths because what does he have aside from his words, and would they listen anyway? He falls into despair imagining what his life might have looked life if he had chosen himself, if he had exercised any agency, but hypotheticals are useless. He checks out entirely as Shauna is giving birth in the other room.

He takes his life into his own hands for possibly the first time by deciding to end it and is interrupted. He realizes what witnessing an event like that would do to Misty and chooses his responsibility to her instead.

He finally makes an autonomous choice again in leaving; wanting not to hurt them but to save himself and so he stays far away. He leaves behind the only person he can trust because she has made it clear to him that she isn’t so different from the rest of them, and not for the first time, he is left completely alone. He regains his will to live but not even necessarily because that’s what he wants and more because he’s afraid, and in his head, the alternative is dying and being eaten. He is hyper aware of the way his leg is a disadvantage to him in a survival situation. So he leaves.

He scavenges and starves but makes do on his own. He adapts. He kidnaps Mari and feeds her and fixes her knee because even after the fear that prompts his departure, she’s scared and she’s hurt and she’s his to take care of. He knows that even if it means he pays for it with his life, he has to let her go. He probably figures she will talk, what other choice does she have? Upon being found, he saves Shauna and Van and Akilah, only to be captured. He knows going into the trial that it won’t be fair. He has no other options. He has no agency.

He is sentenced to death for a crime he didn’t commit. He’s placed in an animal pen, his only means of mobility withheld from him. He’s dragged to a tree to be shot by his former team and isn’t even afforded the dignity of a look in the eye as they do it. He can’t do anything about it. An eleventh hour prophetic vision spares his life, but the severing of his Achilles as the newly settled upon punishment violently strips him of what mobility he had left, and he hadn’t been afforded agency since he was off on his own. He’s left immobile and he’s in pain and he isn’t even allowed to die of his own accord despite his begging and pleading. Even if he knows it’s selfish or horrible or irrational to ask Nat to help him do it, he keeps begging because he has nothing left. Not even choice.

To be allowed to die is the one thing he wants and in granting him his final wish, She gives him back his agency. It’s not what she wants for him and she will feel that guilt for the rest of her life. She knows it will get her in trouble with the rest of the group, but it’s what he wants. That means something to her.

[moonmaiden1996]

Zoro as a romantic partner- My thoughts

Alright, hear me out.

Zoro, the stoic, sword-wielding badass of One Piece, doesn’t show the slightest interest in romance—at least not in any of the arcs I’ve read or watched. He’s far too focused on his goals, his loyalty to Luffy, and his never-ending quest to become the greatest swordsman in the world. But... what if?

I’ve been thinking about what kind of partner Zoro might have, and honestly, the idea that keeps popping into my head is less “typical romance” and more... Tatsu from The Way of the Househusband. If you’re unfamiliar, Tatsu is an infamous and feared yakuza boss, nicknamed "The Immortal Dragon," who (after literally defeating all his enemies) leaves the crime world to become a devoted househusband to the woman who once cared for his wounds.

Now, while Zoro definitely wouldn’t go full Sanji mode (because, let’s be real, Zoro cooking is a kitchen fire waiting to happen), there’s something about that protector-turned-househusband energy that feels surprisingly fitting.

Let’s pause for a second on the Sanji comparison. Sanji is all about charm, flirtation, and over-the-top devotion to every woman he meets. He’s a master chef who pours his heart into crafting meals and showering people with compliments. Zoro, on the other hand, would never lower himself to something he might see as “cooking duty.” It’s just not his style.

But here’s the twist: if someone did something genuinely kind for Zoro—like how Miku cared for Tatsu in The Way of the Househusband when he gets injured—I feel like Zoro would be smitten (or at least, as smitten as Zoro can get). He’d show his appreciation in his own gruff way, and his feelings would manifest through actions rather than words.

Zoro’s approach would be much more subtle, quiet, and honestly, a little rough around the edges—more of a “guard dog” than a “gentleman chef.” He’s the type of guy who lets you sleep on him, beats up Sanji to make sure your favorite meal gets cooked, and stares down anyone foolish enough to think they have a shot at you. It’s that unspoken but undeniable protection that makes the idea of Zoro as a partner so intriguing.

Zoro strikes me as the kind of person who wouldn’t even notice someone as a potential romantic partner unless they demonstrated qualities he deeply values—like loyalty, strength, or determination. He’s stubborn as hell, and most attempts at flirtation would probably fly right over his head. But the moment someone proved their worth to him in a way that resonates, those blinders would come off so fast, and suddenly... boom. Enter Zoro, househusband—but with a twist.

I see him as a fiercely protective presence—the ultimate guard dog for his partner. He’d be the type to wordlessly handle problems before they even reached his significant other, standing as an unshakable shield against the world. Whether it’s physical threats or emotional support, Zoro would embody dependability and unwavering commitment. And let’s not forget—if his partner is equally supportive of him, this man would be unstoppable.

In this hypothetical scenario, Zoro doesn’t lose his edge; instead, he channels his loyalty and protective instincts into a new kind of role. And honestly? That blend of strength, dedication, and quiet care makes for a dynamic that’s as compelling as it is unexpected.

What do you think? Could Zoro be the ultimate househusband in his own unique way? Or is he just too much of a lone wolf for any of this to work?

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 1: Sugared Coffee

Criminal Minds : Multishot

Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: 7554

Warnings: set around season 3 {aka 2007}, slow burn, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, pining on Reid’s part, phobia of needles, PTSD, usual criminal minds level of violence and creepy unsubs, mentions of serial killers and the sick things they do, panic attacks, statistics and quotes I can provide references for

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

A/N: While taking a break from writing my Teen Wolf series, I stumbled onto this little idea 😅 I've been in love with Spencer Reid since 15 years old - and I still haven't written a series with him... WHICH IS A CRIME

Part 1: Sugared Coffee {You Are Here}

Part 2: Needles

~~~

The Quantico buildings stood out pale and dim within the autumn trees. The dead, fall colors of red and orange encased the sidewalks and scented the air with a farmstead crispness. It was a smell you knew you wouldn’t forget as you stood before the main building.

Dressed in a blue button down and a black blazer, you thumbed the plastic sleeve of your new badge. FBI, it said in blue block letters, Behavioral Analysis Unit. This was a step closer to your new life.

Maybe this will be your chance to catch the son of a bitch. Maybe this will be your chance to stop others in the meantime. Maybe this is your chance to stay safe with a new team and a new badge, stifling the feeling of fear that always rested in your diaphragm.

For now you know you will always remember that your first day at the BAU smelled like fall leaves.

~~~

The office felt slower than usual, which could be seen as a reprieve, but it made the team restless. Most of them were catching up on paperwork, or at least taking their time with details. Reid had flown through a list of research papers and true crime novels by the time lunch rolled around.

“I thought we all had paperwork to do.” Prentiss called over, rubbing an ink smudge on her finger, “How come you’re reading crime fiction?”

Reid’s finger stopped running midway through a page in his book. “It’s not fiction, this is a true crime biography written by O.J. Simpson about if he hypothetically committed the murders of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.”

Prentiss raised her eyebrows, tossing her pen onto her desk, “If I was found not guilty for a murder, I would try to put the whole thing behind me. Not write a book detailing what I would do if I actually did it.”

“You finished your paperwork?” Morgan asked, entering the bullpen with a yellow pad of paper. He tore off the top page and sat across from Reid. “I thought you were a speed reader, not a speed writer.”

“I have a lot of free time at home,” Reid said, looking down at his book again.

Morgan laughed, balling up the yellow piece of paper and tossing it at Reid’s head. “Pretty boy needs a pretty girl in his life.”

Reid swatted at where the paper ball bounced off his face. “Stop finding reasons to avoid your work.”

“Woah,” Morgan grinned, “Someone’s a little feisty today.”

“You would be too if someone kept interrupting you while you’re trying to read.”

“Hey, have you heard if that new recruit is coming in today?” Prentiss asked, laying back in her chair and massaging her writing hand.

Morgan shrugged, twisting around in his own chair, “Hotch said interviews ended over a week ago.”

“They’re being pretty secret about the whole thing,” Prentiss went on, “Makes you wonder who they are.”

“I heard Rossi had something to do with it,” Morgan said, “Persuaded Hotch to make the unpopular choice.”

Reid closed his book, unable to concentrate, “That would mean the new guy has a personal connection with Rossi.”

“New girl, it seems,” Morgan said, eyes moving to the office doors to find Hotch escorting a professionally dressed woman.

Reid looked over as well, noticing a few things immediately, profiler that he was. This new recruit held herself tall, speaking of her confidence entering the room. Although her eyes were open wide as if she were trying to see everything all at once. It gave her expression the look of being frightened.

But the hesitant smile on her face spoke of kindness.

She was a walking contradiction. Her handshake was firm, shoulders squared, voice steady and confident. But her breath was shallow, and her eyes gave the appearance of a deer stuck in the headlights.

The conclusion was that this new recruit was confident in her abilities and wanted to be there. But she felt like she had to prove herself, terrified that something would cause her to be kicked off the team.

“This is SSA Derek Morgan,” Hotch introduced, “And SSA Emily Prentiss.”

“Hello,” the new recruit said, shaking each hand.

“And Dr. Spencer Reid,” Hotch gestured towards him, “We’ve found you some competition.”

The girl looked at Reid with a wide smile and it struck him how pretty she was. He blinked dumbly a few times, face blank when he replied, “Competition?” His throat felt incredibly dry.

“This is SSA (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” Hotch continued, “I was just telling her how we had an early graduate already on our team.”

Reid cleared his throat to combat the dryness, “You graduated school early?”

She nodded slowly, “Highschool and college.” She was quiet – shy in stating her accomplishments.

Hotch continued for her, “Had her bachelor’s degree by eighteen.”

(Y/N) sucked in a breath, rushing out, “And my master’s degree by twenty-two.”

“Our genius beats you by a few years,” Morgan grins.

“The eidetic memory helps,” Prentiss scoffs.

(Y/N) smiled again, “It’d be nice to bounce ideas off another brainiac.” She regards Reid with a warmer expression.

He was suddenly overcome with a sense of familiarity, as if he had seen her face somewhere before. He ran her name through his mind, trying to remember if he had read it or just heard it before.

“Speechless, Reid?” Morgan asked, grinning like he knew something everyone else didn’t. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Everyone laughed as Reid tried to clear his mind. (Y/N) was looking at him with such fondness, he hoped it wasn’t pity for his strange and endearing behavior. He surprised himself by realizing he wanted her to like him. Like him a lot.

~~~

You leaned into the cushions of the jet seats, fingers running along your ribcage, at the little scar you knew was there. You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you could.

“Alright, so families are being targeted in their homes with variations of the anthrax bacteria,” Hotch said, leading the team in the next case. “What do we notice about these cases?”

“These don’t seem like full scale terrorist attacks that are usually associated with anthrax,” Morgan said, flipping through the files, “But these could just be test subjects before some biological warfare.”

“Being isolated to just families within their homes gives the appearance of a simple virus passing through,” Prentiss said, “Usually when one family member gets sick they assume everyone will eventually.”

Rossi sighed, “Which kept families from reporting to the hospital until it was too late.”

“It’s also interesting that the unsub is using different anthrax forms,” J.J. continued, looking at the case photos with disgust, “Maybe they’re testing the effectiveness of each.”

Reid had a few knuckles resting against his chin, “We’ve seen inhalation anthrax in previous attacks, which affects the lungs of the infected and presents as flu-like symptoms.”

“There’s also intestinal anthrax, which comes from ingesting the bacteria,” you say quickly, “As well as cutaneous anthrax, which only affects the skin.”

“But we all know that inhalation anthrax is the deadliest,” Hotch said, “It’s been reported as the most fatal.”

“So why is the unsub using these different forms?” Morgan asked.

You thumb through the victim photos, “Maybe the unsub isn’t testing anything. Maybe they just enjoy infecting the family and watching the chaos ensue.”

“What makes you say that?” Hotch asked.

You sigh, feeling the attention being placed on you. A few of your fingers search for the little scar against your ribcage, tracing the slightly raised skin beneath your shirt. “If the goal of infecting the victims is to kill them, then using cutaneous or intestinal anthrax isn’t optimal. As soon as a cutaneous rash or ulcer appears, then you treat it with topical antibiotics and survival is very likely. And the only way intestinal anthrax will kill is if it somehow enters the bloodstream.”

“They could be enjoying the panic of sick families,” Rossi muttered to himself.

“The unsub might be using those forms in addition to inhalation because they want to see ultimate suffering,” you continue.

Morgan leaned forward, “Start with inhalation to incapacitate the victims. Then infect them with the other forms later.”

Hotch nodded in agreement, “Good work, (Y/N). I don’t think we are afraid of a terrorist attack. This is an unsub that enjoys isolating and infecting whole families.”

You swallow hard, proud of yourself for having an idea that might be plausible. This only being your third case with the team meant still trying to find your place among them.

Morgan was relaxed across from you, watching you for a few seconds, “You okay?”

You snap your eyes to him, “Yeah, why?”

He shrugged, looking down to your hand, “You have a nervous tick.”

Your hand instantly left the little scar you often traced, “Don’t we all?” you try to smile, “This is a time sensitive case.”

“Most of them are,” Morgan said, observing you, “There’s something you especially don’t like about this one.”

“What gives you that impression?” you ask, monitoring your own actions to try not to give yourself away.

“I don’t know you all that well…” he said.

You shake your head quickly, “No, you don’t.”

“… but I’ve seen you in some high stress situations the last couple of weeks. And I’ve noticed when you’re a little shaken.”

You close the case file, staring down at it with some apprehension. “Another form of anthrax is injection.”

Morgan looked at you with confusion, “Like with a needle?”

“That’s enough,” Rossi said from a few seats away, “Isn’t there a rule about profiling each other?”

“Papa Rossi to the rescue,” Morgan said with a small smile. “I was just concerned, that’s all.”

You give him a little nod, “I get it.” You give Rossi a stern, knowing look and he waved away your glare.

“We should grab a drink sometime,” Morgan continued, flashing his eyes in Reid’s direction. “It’d be nice to get to know you more.”

You laugh, “The most exciting thing about me, Derek, is this job.”

“Still,” Morgan stretched, “Where you from?”

A little huff escaped your lips as the jet began its descent, “Arizona.”

“What part?”

“Flagstaff,” you say slowly, “Why does this sound like an interrogation?” You were smiling, almost encouraging Morgan’s teasing tone.

“Family? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

You shake your head, “Parents back home. And no.” You notice how Reid suddenly put down the book he was reading to give his undivided attention.

“Alright.”

A laugh escapes you, “That’s all you wanted to know?”

“For now, sweetheart,” he said, giving a wink to Reid when you looked away. “Prentiss and I can scope out the first victim’s house.”

Hotch nodded, watching the jet get closer to the ground, “Good. Rossi, you and J.J. can look at the second victim’s house. Reid and (Y/N) – you two can go to the hospital to get more information on the symptoms and treatment of the victims. I’ll set up base at the local police station.”

Morgan seemed pleased about something as he got ready for the landing. Reid gave a little wave to you but seemed embarrassed by the action as he looked away immediately.

~~~

You sit behind the wheel of the SUV, Reid in the passenger seat twiddling his thumbs in his lap. You could tell he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. If you had it your way, you’d prefer to keep your silence while he rambled on about whatever was on his mind.

That way you wouldn’t have to talk. The less you talk the less likely you’ll share something you would regret.

“I found out recently that there’s a stage theatre in Virginia that puts on Shakespeare plays,” you say quietly.

Reid turns to you with raised eyebrows, “The Blackfriars Playhouse?”

You nod, “I hear it’s the world’s only re-creation of Shakespeare’s indoor theatre.”

“Yes, it started out as a traveling troupe that performed in countries around the world. They were taken in by the International Shakespeare Globe Centre and featured in England. In 1999 they changed their name to Shenandoah Shakespeare and moved to Staunton, Virginia. It took two years for the Blackfriars Playhouse to be built, and since then they’ve rebranded as the American Shakespeare Center that educates aspiring actors and performs using Renaissance rehearsal practices to showcase Shakespeare’s greatest works on their Globe Theatre stage.”

You start to relax against the wheel, “I saw somewhere that they’re having a year long conference.”

Reid was getting all excited, sitting on the edge of his seat and smiling with his words, “They are! The ASC is partnering with Shakespeare’s Globe in London. You’re a fan of Shakespeare?”

You give a polite nod, “As long as it’s on the stage. Shakespeare was meant to be watched, not just read.”

“Exactly!” he was thrilled to find something in common with you. “What is your favorite play?”

“Probably Much Ado About Nothing.”

“A comedy,” Reid said, “It’s one of my favorites too. Did you know that Much Ado About Nothing is considered one of Shakespeare’s greatest comedies? Although a similar trope of a happy ending, united lovers, and a villain receiving justice is seen in both The Merchant of Venice and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Much Ado About Nothing also features more prose than just about any other Shakespearean play.”

You smile, confused, “Prose?”

“Prose is the written or spoken language in its ordinary form, meaning without the use of a metrical structure. It follows the natural flow of speech and differs from most traditional poetry. Much Ado About Nothing is about 75% prose and only 25% actual poetry verse. Verse is used to express more emotional statements, so that essentially proves how much of a comedy the play is because 75% of the material is used to express whimsical thoughts.”

You kept smiling, turning to enter the hospital parking lot. “I had no idea.”

It was quiet for a second before Reid cleared his throat, “I was rambling, wasn’t I?”

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I like it.”

Reid squirmed in his seat, warmth blooming in his chest, “I’m sorry, I should give you more of a chance to talk. Did you bring up the Blackfriars Playhouse because you wanted to see a show?”

You open the car door, “Maybe. Let’s get this over with.”

He scrambles out of the car, readjusting his side bag. “Okay.” You could tell he wanted to continue your conversation, but you brushed it off as you both enter the building to talk to the chief of the hospital.

You held back a shiver as you meet with staff in the urgent care ward. They told you of the severity of the anthrax murders, the horrific symptoms presented in the victims. They confirmed how quickly the bacteria affects a person and travels to everyone within a household.

“It would be easily transmitted between family members,” the doctor expressed.

“We believe the man we’re looking for is entering the home and tainting their food, infecting their air conditioning units, and injecting them in their sleep,” Reid says.

The doctor nods, “I can say the inhalation infection was there the longest, meaning it was the first form used. Cutaneous infection through injections hasn’t been present as long.”

“Meaning the unsub is entering the house a second time to infect them with a different form,” you say, “This guy likes to stick around and watch.” You trace the little scar against your ribcage, fingers lowering to another pinprick scar against your abdomen.

“Thank you for your time,” Reid said, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Of course,” the doctor said, “And before I forget, your unit chief wanted your team treated to prevent an anthrax infection.”

Reid nodded in understanding, but you start to seize, “How?”

A nurse leaves to grab some supplies as the doctor states calmly, “Antibiotics and the anthrax vaccine. We usually only recommend it for individuals that are at risk.”

“And that comes in a pill form?” you ask quickly. Reid looks at you suddenly from your tone of voice.

“The antibiotics do,” the doctor says, pulling out some paperwork, “But the vaccine comes in an injection.”

Pain enters your side. You know it’s most likely a phantom pain, but you can’t escape the feeling of terror bubbling in your diaphragm. It popped and sizzled into your lungs, bringing you back to the familiar sensation of your lungs being punctured.

You attempted to mask the reaction – hold back the sweat wetting your palms and creeping up your neck. You cooled your tone as you cleared your throat. You didn’t even want to see the vaccine.

Reid was being directed to sit down and roll up his sleeve, which he did while keeping his eyes trained on you. You didn’t want to see the confusion and worry in his face.

You run your fingers through your hair, holding back the shakiness of your hands, “I uh… I need to run to the bathroom real quick.”

You didn’t hear any response as you sped to the nearest bathroom. White noise was buzzing in your ears, dots of pain appearing across your front, like little beestings. You knew it was just a memory, and you clenched either side of the porcelain sink telling yourself that.

Of course you knew a spiral was going to happen. It was one of the main reasons Hotchner didn’t want to hire you in the first place. But you had hoped you’d be a few more cases in before it happened. 

You breathed through the terror, splashed your face with cold water, and flexed your fingers. You grounded yourself with your surroundings: Tiled floors, white walls, soap scum on the sink, faint bleach smell, water dripping down the drain.

Straightening out, you took a deep breath, no sharp stabbing pain – the fear trickling back into its containment in your diaphragm.

You straighten the hairs framing your face, wiping the speckle of water against your chin. Your phone started ringing.

“Hello?”

“Hi, gorgeous,” came a bright sing-song voice, “How’s my new bestie?”

A smile finally breaks the grimness of your face, “Garcia.”

“Yeah, hi – Hotch is asking that everyone meets back at the station. We just found a connection between the families. They’re both customers of the same plumbing company.”

“Which would give someone access to their drinking water and air conditioning.”

“Oh, I didn’t even think about infecting the water supply,” Garcia said, a smile clear in her voice, “I knew boy genius was going to have some competition with you.”

“Thanks, Garcia,” you say, sliding the phone back in your pocket. You exit the bathroom and find Reid waiting by the front doors. His face was placid, but his brow furrowed upon seeing you.

His throat bobbed before he spoke. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Hotch wants us back at the police station.” You walked right past him and out to the parking lot.

Reid had to jog to catch up to you, pointing back at the hospital, “Did you get the vaccine?”

“I’m fine,” you say, getting in the car, “The team made a connection between the victims.”

It was obvious that he didn’t believe you, but he was too intimidated by your evasion that he kept his mouth shut. The warmth that bloomed in his chest at sharing a car ride with you was still there. He wanted it to stay – he didn’t want to jeopardize the possible friendship growing between you.

Looking at you drive, more tense than he’s seen you before, he was struck again with how familiar you were. Whether your name or your face, he didn’t know but he could’ve sworn he’d heard of you before.

It had only been a few weeks, but he knew he already had it bad. He was becoming infatuated with you.

~~~

The team had dispersed again, taking part in investigating new suspects at the plumbing company. (Y/N) and Hotch were in the next room interrogating a lead while Reid updated the geographical profile in their office.

Rossi was confirming their suspicions that another family might be targeted in the next 24 hours.

Reid capped a marker and cleared his throat, “You knew (Y/N) before she joined the BAU.”

“Yeah,” Rossi said, immediately suspicious, “What of it?”

“It’s just…” Reid continued, sitting down at the table, “I feel like I know her from somewhere, but I can’t quite place it.”

“I thought you remembered everything.”

“I remember what I read, but I think her name is something I’ve heard before.”

Rossi put his files down, giving his full attention, “Why don’t you just ask her?”

“Because I have a feeling she’ll deflect.”

“So you’re trying to go behind her back?”

Reid sighed, “No, I just… she worried me a little at the hospital. I know something is wrong.”

That sparked some interest in Rossi. He leaned forward, “What happened?”

“She basically ran away when the doctor said we needed to get a shot. She says she got one, but I think she was lying.”

Rossi was quick to answer, “A lot of people don’t like getting shots.”

“No, it was the way she reacted,” he said quietly, “It was more than just a phobia. And I know she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Then there’s only one thing you can do.”

Reid looked up hopefully, “What?”

“Be a good friend and respect her wishes.”

“You’re not going to tell me how you know her, are you?” Reid said, disappointed.

“It’s not my story to tell,” Rossi shrugged, “But if she’s lying about getting the vaccine, then I might talk to her. We don’t want her contracting anthrax because of a fear.”

Reid twiddled his thumbs, giving his best puppy-dog stare, “Not even a hint?”

It pulled a chuckle out of Rossi, “You like this girl.”

“Did Morgan tell you that?”

“It’s not so hard to figure out,” the old man smiled, “I’ll give you some advice. (Y/N) is a driven and stubborn woman. She’s never liked being told what she can and can’t do. But that’s only what’s on the surface. (Y/N) is one of the kindest, quirkiest, most considerate people I know. You just need to get past the hard outer shell.”

Reid nodded to himself, “We talked about Shakespeare in the car today.”

“You did?” Rossi seemed surprised, “That was quick.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve already found a nerdy part of her. I thought she’d guard that for a while longer.” He was amused by the giddy happiness that entered Reid’s face, “There might be hope for you yet, kid.”

It wasn’t much later that Hotch figured out that you hadn’t taken any preventative measures against the anthrax. He ordered you back to the hospital or else stay off the case until they caught the unsub. He wasn’t going to take any chances when working with such a serious bacteria.

You, being the stubborn newbie that you are, bit your tongue and quieted the fear beginning to brew below your ribcage.

Taking advantage of the situation, Reid stepped up to escort you to the hospital. It was a quiet and tense ride to the urgent care, Reid attempting to find a way to express his concern.

“Not a fan of needles?” he asked with a lighter inflection.

You hold back a scoff, “Not really.” Your fingers are knotted and pressed tightly against your stomach.

Reid tried to keep his eyes on the road, “I don’t like them much either.”

“It’s silly, really,” you say, closing your eyes.

“No, it’s not. Everyone is afraid of something,” he rushed out, stopping you from diminishing your feelings. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

You swallow hard, “Really?”

“Some would say that’s ridiculous now that we’re adults. But you never know what’s lurking in the dark.”

It was silent for another minute before you took a shaky breath, “I have a pretty severe phobia.”

“Of what?”

You lick your lips, “Any kind of needle. Sewing needles, knitting needles, safety pins, thumbtacks, you name it. I can’t… they remind me…” You clamp your mouth shut.

Reid was hesitant but wanted to encourage you to continue, “You know you’re part of a team now. Whatever we share with each other is in confidence. We all have your back.”

I have your back, he wanted to say, You can trust me.

You tighten your hands, “They remind me of a dark place. I don’t like going there.”

Reid flexed his fingers against the steering wheel. He blinked hard before muttering, “I’ll be there with you.”

You both entered the hospital with Reid having a hand hovering against your back. He didn’t touch you, but he wanted to. He walked beside you, guiding you to sit in a chair. As soon as the nurse appeared with a sterile metal tray, you turned your head away.

Reid sat beside you, addressing the nurse.

“Afraid of needles?” she asked.

You didn’t respond so Reid said, “A little.”

“Don’t worry, honey, this will be over in a second. Just a little pinch.” She noticed how shallow your breathing had gotten, “Remember to breathe, sweetie.”

You nod, jumping when the cold wet of the alcohol wipe touched your exposed shoulder. Reid watched you tense up, gripping the armrests of the chair. He wasn’t sure what was overstepping boundaries, but he felt compelled by the concern eating him up to grab your hand.

His fingers wrapped around yours and he was relieved to find you clutching back at him. As soon as the injection touched your arm, a gasp escaped you. You were shaking in his hand and your face was screwed up against the sharp pain.

Reid never took his eyes off your face, worried at how severe your reaction was. He realized you were holding your breath as the nurse put a band-aid on your arm.

“Breathe, (Y/N),” he said quietly, “Remember to breathe.”

You inhale sharply, “Is it over?”

“Yes,” Reid said in his same calming tone, “And you’re okay. We’re all done.”

You open your eyes, finding Reid looking at you with a deep level of concern. He hadn’t let go of your hand yet and you found that grounding yourself was easier this time. No white noise filled your ears, no phantom pinpricks of pain stabbed your abdomen.

You focused on your surroundings: Reid’s warm hand holding yours, the smell of sugared coffee and mahogany on his collar, the slow breaths filling his chest, and the heat of him nearly pressed against your arm.

“Thank you,” you say softly, “That wasn’t so bad with you here.”

His heart soared out of his chest, a smile wide on his face, “Anytime.”

~~~

A month later you were settling into the team more and more. You had found little blossoms of friendship among your coworkers, except for Rossi who was determined to remain your second father.

You felt more at ease the longer time passed without suspicion about your hiring process. Though that could mean a higher chance of a slip up.

“You. Up. Drinks. Now,” Morgan had pointed a finger at you and gestured to the elevators where some of the team stood.

“Derek,” you sighed, leaning in your chair, “You know the club isn’t my kind of scene.”

He shook his head, smiling, “Not today, angel face. You’ve had an excuse the last four weekends and I know for a fact you were planning on spending your evening alone, reading and drinking your tea.”

You pursed your lips, eyes flickering to where Reid was talking to Prentiss. You had told him earlier that day of your excitement to have a free weekend to read.

“Is nothing sacred anymore?”

“Come on, pretty boy will only go if you go,” Morgan said.

And now you sat at a dimly lit table, waiting for your drink as Morgan was having a dance off with Prentiss out on the floor. She shoved him over and right into the nearest beautiful woman. Derek raised his eyebrows and sent Emily a little ‘thank you’ as he began dancing sensually with his new partner.

Emily rolled her eyes and went to find her own dance partner.

Over at the bar was J.J. and Garcia, no doubt discussing the latest Quantico gossip. Garcia, with a thin black straw between her teeth, slack jawed at the whisperings of J.J.’s news. It made you smile knowing that the analyst would corner you later to tell you what she had learned.

The low lights included a mixture of purple and blue, setting a cool tone around the people sitting at tables. You run your fingers along the table surface, noticing Reid making his way to you with two drinks.

“You look bored,” he said with a close lipped smile.

You accept the drink gratefully, “I told Derek I’m not a fan of drinks.”

“Then why did you agree to come?”

Because I knew you wouldn’t have a good time if I didn’t. You swallow, stirring your drink around with the straw, “My parents tell me I should go out every once in a while or I’ll never make any friends.”

He huffed a laugh, “You talk to your parents a lot?”

“I would every day if I let them have their way.”

“Are you close?”

You shrug your shoulders, “They worry about me.”

“Are you an only child?”

“Don’t start the profiling questions,” you say with a smirk, “But yes, I am an only child.”

Reid nods, his face heating up at being chastised. “There are a lot of studies on the effects of only children.”

“You going to say I’m a stereotypical only child that experiences overprotectiveness and spoiling from my two loving parents?”

“No,” Reid said calmly, “There are actually many studies that disprove that stereotype. Professor Toni Falbo from the University of Texas found that ‘across all developmental outcomes, only children were indistinguishable from firstborns and people from small families.’ And clinical psychologist Linda Blair wrote about how ‘parents can focus all their time and energy on an only child,’ which means they get valuable relationship time where ‘they just feel valued’, not just a sense of being overprotected. I think your parents might worry about you because of a different reason.”

You try to contain your smile, “No, they’re definitely just overprotective of me.”

“But then something must’ve happened to have them be overprotective of you. It couldn’t just be because you’re an only child.”

You take a sip of your drink, slowly nodding your head. Be careful. Don’t slip up. “A little bit of both.” You cleared your throat, “You know what show I just started?”

Reid took note of the change of subject, “What?”

“Doctor Who.”

His face split open into the biggest smile, “Really? The series from 1963 or the revamped series from 2005?”

“I just started the Tenth Doctor,” you say, matching his smile, “I think I like David Tennant more.”

Reid looked about ready to burst with the amount of information he knew about the topic. He started stuttering over his words, twiddling his fingers in the air as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“My favorite is by far the Fourth Doctor played by Tom Baker. He’s the longest running Doctor on the series, having starred in seven seasons between 1974 and 1981. He is the most recognizable Doctor internationally with his famous multicolored scarf. I think his most popular companions are K-9 and…”

“… Sarah Jane!” you say enthusiastically, “Yeah, they were both in the last season with the Tenth Doctor.”

“Yes, yes!” he said happily, “That’s one of the greatest things about Doctor Who – they bring back timeless characters and stories through the years. It’s why you have to watch the originals!”

You laugh at his endearing blabber, “Go back to black and white television?”

“It’s classic,” he retorts, “Sure the BBC didn’t give them much of a budget at first, but the black and white helps hide the poor quality of the sets and costumes. And television back then wasn’t designed to be binged like today, so many of the stories aren’t cohesive, but that’s the beauty of it. It’s history in the making – you can see the progress of a single character and their life over almost fifty years! It’s fascinating.”

You nod slowly, tickled by Reid’s eagerness, “Alright. Maybe I’ll try to watch them.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to talk to you about the Master and the evolution of the Daleks and the effects of the Time War.”

Another laugh escapes you as you continue to stir your drink with the straw, staring at the ice cubes tink against the glass.

It got quiet as Reid stewed in the slight embarrassment that itched his stomach as his excitement wore off. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I rambled.”

“I told you I like it,” you say, finally looking at him in that dimly lit bar, “I like seeing you get all excited about stuff. It makes me want to get excited about it too.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t do things just because I like them.”

“Why not?” you say firmly, “What if I want us to share something?”

He was caught off guard by that, blinking hard a few times. “You want us to share something?”

You take another sip of your drink. It was getting watered down now by the melting ice. “I told you I need more friends,” you smile at him, “My parents are worried, remember?”

Reid’s throat bobbed, thoughts of spending long nights cuddled on the couch and watching old shows on a black and white television disappear in an instant. His hopes of taking her on a date to the Blackfriars Playhouse to see her favorite play were being diminished, the tickets of said show burning in his back pocket. The want to brew her a cup of tea and share an evening reading books together, maybe even holding hands across their reading chairs, ached in his chest.

“Friends,” he said quietly, “Right.”

~~~

Not long after the bar trip, you invited Reid over to your apartment for one of your reading sessions.

When you opened the door to find him with nearly ten books piled in his arms, you laughed. “You’re gonna out read me 10 to 1.”

He gave a close lipped smile, fighting back the embarrassment of his quirks. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

You sat on one end of the couch, thumbing the edge of your fiction book. “I put a kettle on,” you said gesturing to the stove, “If you want to have a cup of tea with me.”

Reid took off his satchel, setting his books on a side table, “I’m more of a coffee guy.”

“Yeah,” you say smiling, “More like a sugar guy with some coffee beans on the side.”

You’re suddenly struck with another memory. Just like how you remember that your first day at the BAU smelled like fall leaves.

You remember that the first time you were able to easily ground yourself from PTSD, it smelled like sugared coffee.

As the kettle started screaming with steam, you went to stand until Reid started waving you down, “No, no – you’re already sitting. I’ll get the tea.”

And as he passed you by, it smelled like sugared coffee again, “But you don’t even want any.”

He didn’t respond, smiling to himself as he filled a waiting teacup with boiling water. A little cannister of teabags sat beside the stove. “Did you know that tea is the second most popular drink in the world? The first being water.”

“So my preferred drink is more popular than yours?” you say teasingly as he came around the couch with the steaming cup.

“That’s because the Asia Pacific is a dominant region for tea, and that accounts for over 4 billion people, which is around 60% of the world’s population. Not to mention that around 68% of people in the United Kingdom drink at least one tea per day, and that’s about 61 million people. That puts the tea industry slightly above the coffee.” He handed you the teacup, his fingertips burning where they brushed up against yours, and not because the drink was hot.

“You could just say tea is better than coffee, it’s okay,” you say, blowing before taking a sip.

Reid held back a smile, sitting on the other side of the couch, “Maybe not better… but more popular.”

You bickered with smiles on your faces for a couple more minutes before cracking open your books. You’re giggling as you toss your bookmark at him, “Just shut up and read your books.”

He laughed at you, trying to get comfortable on his side, crossing his spindly legs.

The pair of you sat in a comfortable silence as the sun dipped lower behind the blinds. Reid had blown throw two psychology textbooks and another true crime book written by a favorite author. You had gotten through maybe seventy pages of your adult fantasy novel.

Reid thought he would’ve gotten through six books by then, but he kept getting distracted by you. The thought of reaching over and holding your hand as you read was overwhelming. He wanted to sit closer, rub shoulders with you, peer over and read the same page as you, wait for you to finish before he turned the page for you.

He wanted to catch your eyes drooping with sleep and then offer to read aloud to you as you drift off against him. He wanted to drape a blanket around you both and help you sip tea so you wouldn’t have to take your arms out from under the warmth. He wanted to hear you read your favorite lines to him. He wanted to see you shift into a more comfortable reading position, grumbling about aching wrists. He wanted to read your book just so he could talk to you about it.

He wanted you.

It was getting painful how much he wanted you.

The bookmark he was using was the two tickets to the Blackfriars Playhouse. They blared at him like a beacon sitting on the side table.

But then something remarkable happened. From your scrunched up position on the opposite side of the couch, you crept your feet across the seat cushions until they reached Reid. You then tucked your cold toes under his thigh.

He abruptly looked at you with raised eyebrows.

You shrugged your shoulders, attempting to look innocent. “My feet are cold.”

He fought a huge smile, “And you don’t have a blanket?”

“Why would I need a blanket when you’re here?” You said it so casually there was no way you noticed how that made Reid’s heart leap.

“Fair enough,” he responded. He cleared his throat, flickering his eyes between you and his own book. “Hey, (Y/N)?”

You look up at him over the top of your book, “Yeah, Spence?”

Spence. He started smiling despite the nerves, “I couldn’t help but notice that the Blackfriars Playhouse is showing Much Ado About Nothing, and um…” he swallowed hard, unable to look at you. “… I just so happen to have two tickets to see it next Saturday.”

Your feet wiggled under his leg, and he squirmed, tickled. “Is that so?”

“Would you want to go with me… maybe?”

You could barely contain the excitement starting to course through your veins, “Are you kidding? Spence! I would love to go.” Your book fell from your fingers, “Oh my god, I’m so excited.”

The pride that swelled Reid’s chest could’ve made him float to the moon.

~~~

You could’ve blamed it on the case. On the method of killing. On the type of victim. But it was the fact that you didn’t have a handle on your emotions.

Girls around your age were being taken and tortured by having nails hammered into them. Sharp, pointed nails – stabbed into them. It was too similar.

You counted your breaths and stared at your desk. Everyone exited the bullpen before you, packing briefcases and emergency bags for the incoming jet flight to Missouri. You staggered on your way out, nearly collapsing into your desk chair.

You considered running to the bathroom like you usually did, dousing yourself in cold water and snapping out of it. Instead you closed your eyes and traced the little scars you could find against your ribcage and abdomen.

The smell of coffee wafted over you.

“Hey,” came a small voice, kneeling beside you. “Is it the nails?”

You try to swallow, but it’s thick and sticks to the back of your throat. You just subtly nod instead, slowly opening your eyes.

Reid is there, leaning against your desk and itching to touch you – to comfort you.

“(Y/N),” he said cautiously, “Is this more than a phobia?”

You attempt a deep breath, but it’s shallow in your chest, “I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe we should…”

“Reid,” you say more sternly, “I’m going to be fine. I’m not going to let this hold me back.” You brush him off, standing and straightening your blazer. “I’m gonna go pack.”

Reid let you pass but kept his gaze on you as you left the offices. It must’ve been too full of the longing and worry he felt for you because Morgan and Prentiss were quick to comment on it.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” Morgan said, setting his duffel bag down, “What’s got your attention?”

Prentiss gave a breathy laugh, zipping up her own bag, “Only the object of all his desires.”

“Give it a rest,” he responded, running his fingers through his hair. “You’re not helping.”

“Helping what?” Morgan folded his arms, “You getting out of the friend zone?”

“If she could see the way you just looked at her,” Prentiss sucked in a breath of air that sounded like a hiss, “Maybe she’d see how in love you are.”

“Those big old puppy-dog eyes,” Morgan smiled, “You’re irresistible.”

Reid grumbled, “Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah, the fact you’re wasting time pining when you could be getting some weekend sugar,” Morgan laughed.

“No,” Reid looked away, “There’s something familiar about (Y/N) and I don’t know what it is. Rossi refuses to say anything because he’s protecting her, but I know they have a past. That has to mean she’s been involved in Rossi’s career somehow, whether that’s from a case, or one of his lectures, or as one of his interns. But the fact he doesn’t speak about it means that it’s personal.”

“Okay,” Morgan said, the smile leaving his face, “What do you want to do?”

The corner of Reid’s lip twitched – it usually happened when he was thinking about something difficult, “I don’t know. I guess I hoped she would tell me eventually.”

“But now you’re impatient?” Prentiss asked, brow scrunched, “You want Garcia to look (Y/N) up?”

“No!” Reid said quickly, “I just… I want to help her, but I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“I thought she just got a little squeamish around needles,” Morgan said, “She needs a second, but then she’s good.”

Reid shoved his hands in his pockets, “I think it’s a trauma response.”

“Well, don’t phobias come from past incidents or traumas?” Prentiss asked, “Couldn’t she have had a bad experience at the doctors as a child getting her flu shot?”

They clearly weren’t as concerned as he was, and Reid sat at his desk, knuckles covering his mouth as he thought.

Morgan shared a look with Prentiss before saying, “Look kid, we worry about (Y/N) too. We’re here for her if she needs it. But we’re not going to go snooping around in her personal business that she would rather keep private.”

“She’s not going to ask for help,” Reid said to himself.

Prentiss pursed her lips, “Then we’ll be here to catch her when she falls.” She gestured to Morgan and the pair of them took their bags to meet by the SUVs, all the while muttering to themselves.

Reid drummed his knuckles against his lips, staring at his computer screen and debating. He could do a simple google search himself, no need to bother Rossi or Garcia with it. With Rossi being involved in some way, there might be a news article somewhere that mentions you.

Hesitantly, looking around for any prying eyes, Reid logged onto his computer and typed in the search engine. He searched for your name. Your name plus FBI. Your name plus David Rossi.

And a string of articles popped up. Newspapers from Arizona, Nevada, and Utah.

Young girls kidnapped, held, tortured, and murdered in the desert. The murderer being coined ‘The Pincushion Killer’ based on his methods. Each victim was repeatedly stabbed with varying sized needles. Starting with acupuncture needles and growing to icepicks. He purposely stabbed his victims in nonthreatening spots of the body, avoiding large blood vessels and major organs. The purpose to draw out their suffering.

Until the day of the murder. He would then puncture an organ of his choice: lungs, stomach, liver, sometimes an artery.

He was never caught. But all nine of his victims were identified. Eight killed. And the ninth survived.

And pasted on the front of every news article said: Pincushion Killer – Victim #9 Survives; Killer Disappears.

Below was a picture of (Y/N).

The ninth victim.

~~~

Taglist: @caswinchester2000 @aria253264 @bippity-boppity-boopa @kaqua @cameleonfrenzy @shyposttree @thatdummy-girl @chiefqueef22 @nicole-survivor @murder-swan​ @nomajdetective​ @mxacegrey​ @cynbx @popeheywardssecretgf @futuremrsspencerreid @dilflover10 @mrskatpotter @holly-the-trash-writer​ @noakroontje

[harbo-urr-chou]

how would sasaki work in the dynamic of your afterlife au? i can’t believe we all collectively forget she committed first degree murder too, but adding her to the afterlife gang would be so hilarious……….. ken okazaki and sasaki……..

The thing is, I know it might be a controversial opinion and I'm not a judge or anything, but in my eyes Sasaki's murder is a second degree murder.

She was sleep deprived (which is literally a form of torture), kidnapped and forced to play violent games. So she snapped. Her only crime was that she did it first.

I think that if she truly wanted to kill Isono, she would cook up a proper plan, not just mash her head into the floor in a public space where people could see her. She fucked up. She didn't want that.

So in my mind she doesn't deserve to be locked up with these two little freaks, they've got each other and that's enough :P

Hypothetically thought, if she was with them, I think she and Ken would form a coalition against Okazaki but still lose to her every time because she would drive them both insane. Okazaki would have a blast though.

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Chapter 20

Story masterlist

Arranged marriage AU

Interact with THIS LINKED POST to be added to the tag list.

NOTE: Reader is not having a good time. Or Grizelda. Or Dion. Or Fontaine. No-one is. Whatever this chapter is, I do not know. It came to me in a dream/j (it's been sitting in my google docs and I decided to go with it in the end).

Warnings: toxic marriage/relationship, implied suicidal thoughts/ideation, attempted murder, choking (Dion to Fontaine), mental breakdown (Reader), Reader pulls her hair harshly, toxic and abusive family (the Agriches), talks of punishment, small themes of imprisonment, themes of abuse, implied past/recent attempted sexual assault, the Reader and Grizelda do get stalked a bit for plot reasons, the Reader can’t decide on what she wants, Dion gets called a dog a few times, mention of pregnancy once at the end, the Reader is an emotional mess and genuinely does not know what she wants in this moment, possible yandere themes (I’m not even sure, just adding just in case). Lant only cares about the hypothetical child since it would be Dion's and thus a rising star. Please tell me if I missed any.

Warning #2: some suggestive lines.

Everyone is out of character but that’s f i n e -

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS ACTIONS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANTICIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY TOXIC AND DANGEROUS.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS (BLOGS THAT DO NOT HAVE ANY CONTENT), BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACT WITH OR REBLOG ANYTHING FANDOM RELATED (FICS, ART, ETC, OR EVEN ANIMAL PICS), DNI.

= = =

Grizelda had made a turn to show you some of the safe flowers. The direction also leads to the indoor training room, but she’s sure that Fontaine is outside the gates of the mansion - after all, it’s bigger. More room to act recklessly. 

She didn’t know that others were outside it right now, which led to her older half-brother staying inside an isolated area, awaying from prying eyes.

You didn’t either.

“Oh, they’re… lovely,” your eyes soak in the sight of the colorful flora. The grass was also a healthy green - if there was one thing you could say about Lant Agriche, it’s that he makes damn sure everything is pleasing to the eyes.

If you ignore his face and the monsters raised here for dubious reasons. Fontaine being one of them.

You bite your lip - it’s still fresh in your mind. His voice. His touch. 

No - just ignore it. He’s not here. Grizelda is.

Even so, you’re jittery, scanning your surroundings every few seconds. In spite of her good company, you can’t help but to feel naked, watched from the shadows. Paranoia works wonders, especially when you see a shadow move from the corner of your eye.

“They are, aren’t they?” She watches as you approach a rose bush, fingers lightly tracing the petals. The pink flowers she had given - burdened - you with are in your left hand, held against your chest. “I don’t come here often, but it’s a nice change of pace.”

She joins you in looking at them. However, she doesn’t admire them like you are. They’re beautiful, sure, but they wilt rather quickly once plucked. They’re also used to make drugs.

Of course, she keeps that fact to herself. 

Approaching footsteps catches your attention, looking over your shoulder to see two guards. Your heart fills with guilt the moment you recognize them -

They’re the ones you smiled at while ignoring your husband. They look tired, a bandage on one’s neck while the other looks half-dead. You immediately knew that Dion was behind it - frankly speaking, you thought they would be dead.

 You’re also amazed at how fast he works - it was only yesterday they committed the crime that is looking at you. You freeze as they get closer, making your sister-in-law curious.

When they see you they become stiffer than a statue. The air becomes awkward as Grizelda looks on with curiosity. Their eyes trail over to her, seeing that you’re not alone.

That’s when they bow.

There’s a bitterness in your mouth. You quickly remind yourself why they’re like this. However, this interaction is only making you resent Dion more. Your grip tightens on the flower stems.

“Greetings, Lady Grizelda and Lady (Name),” they say with a croaky voice. They don’t lift their heads for several seconds until your sister-in-law commands them to. When they do, they avoid looking at you, their eyes glued to something behind you.

You hold back an apology - what good would that do? If anything, you copy their behavior, humming awkwardly as you stare at the flowers in your hands. 

The remnants of their ripped thorns dig into the fabric of the glove.

The three of you don’t want a repeat of that day - them getting punished for daring to look at Dion’s lovely wife, and you being ‘teased,’ hearing Dion call himself your husband - while it’s true, you hate hearing the word come out of his mouth.

You want him to leave you alone.

‘If it were me, I wouldn’t have left you alone in this maze of a mansion.’ A wave of nausea washes over you  when his voice swims to the surface. Chills crawl down your spine at the thought of being married to Fontaine. It almost feels like a blessing that you got stuck with the second eldest.

But is it really…? 

“... ah, we should get going - we’ve been ordered to help with the children’s lessons,” the brunette guard states. “They’re practicing with their weapons,” he finishes before attempting to walk past you. 

“Oh? That’s today?” Grizelda asks the retreating guard. He stops, turning to face her as he confirms it. He tries his best not to look at you.

“Yes; it’s taking place in the outside training grounds, My Lady,” the grey-haired man answers. Now that his attention is on the seventeen-year-old, his body becomes less stiff, a bit more comfortable. 

It makes you want to smack Dion. 

… no, I shouldn’t… it’s tempting, but -, and the resentment only blooms more.

“Hm… I suppose that means we can’t go anywhere near there - father is rather strict about that. Not only that, but there’s a chance you might accidentally get hit.”

“O-oh.. right.” You nod your head. 

The guards bid their farewells before leaving. You watch their retreating figures with a hint of guilt - they wouldn’t be like that had you just ignored them. But that guilt is slowly replaced with a thin layer of anger, baffled that Dion would go that far - you’re not sure what he did, but from how they acted, it wasn’t anything good - just because you smiled at them.

…does that horrible man expect you to eventually cave in? With his actions, it only makes you see him in a worse light, signaling he might not even let you have friends. The flower stems in your hand threaten to break under your grip. A moment later and you finally relax your hand.

For now, you bury the thought away, returning your attention to Grizelda. You try to smile. It feels tight.

“Since we can’t go there, how about another area? Anywhere is fine.” The sun beams down on you, your (h/c) shining in it as your (e/c) eyes reflect her figure, but there’s a hint of something she can’t put her finger on in them.

She hums, tapping her chin with her pointer finger, mulling over the options. “Well… we have to pass by the indoor training grounds - it’s a building smaller than the mansion, but still rather big. It’s usually used for whenever it’s raining and it’s too slippery.”

The description reminds you of a gym.

“Since the children are outside, it should be empty - no-one to run into. I doubt Dion is there, and Fontaine is probably taking his anger out on some monsters right outside the estate gates.” 

As you would later find out, her guess was wrong. Extremely wrong.

She continues, “We have to pass it to get to this one area I would like to show you. It’s peaceful there; barely anyone visits. Same for the library if you ever want to check it out.”

You hesitate to nod your head, your gut twisting uncomfortably. The nice smell slowly fades away, unable to kick the feeling away. You must be tired.

“What type of place is it?” You ask instead, shifting your weight onto your right foot. The left one still has a faint sting. It’s barely there, but it’s still a reminder of what happened.

Despite your outward behavior, you can’t shake everything off. So, you just smile. 

Either she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care as she answers. It sounds like a nice place - a small gazebo tucked away in a corner covered by trimmed bushes. 

Apparently it wasn’t as flashy as the rest of the mansion, simple but durable. 

So ordinary that no-one bats an eye at it, and it is something that your father-in-law has forgotten about completely - a nice place to hide away from the horrors of the world. 

“That actually sounds… nice,” you say with a smile - doing your best to forget everything that happened earlier. 

Right.

The sun is bright and the air is fresh. 

“It is. A nice little hiding place - I doubt that anyone is there right now.” And with that, the younger girl takes lead, and like a baby chick you follow, still holding the pink flowers as the red ones are in her own hands. 

It still feels like eyes are on you. Your legs are starting to feel strained, walking becoming an effort. The hairs on the back of your neck are standing, a small sheen of sweat on your nape.

Your eyes travel downwards to the flowers in your hands - still vivid and pink, not a hint of wilt on them. You look back up at Grizelda’s back, her brown hair gently bouncing with each step. It’s peaceful.

… how long will this last…?

Your gaze drops to your feet, slowly inhaling before shaking your head at the silly and useless question. But the feeling of being watched only increases. The lie you told yourself moments ago is already starting to shatter as you’re imprisoned by your own mind.

“Once we get there, we can stay for a bit, admire the view of the garden.” The brunette suggests with a quick glance behind her shoulder. She looks back ahead once you nod your head. The rest of the walk is quiet, something heavy edging at the back of your mind. 

When you get near the indoor training room, two guards are carrying dummies while heading towards it. You both halt, surprised to see anyone there - you shouldn’t be, but the sorceress was so sure of herself it almost felt like the scene was going against the laws of nature.

Confusion fills you - Fontaine was the oldest, Dion the second, Grizelda the third and Roxana the fourth. Twenty-three, twenty, seventeen and fifteen. The rest are considered children, therefore wouldn’t they be attending their lesson…?

Neither of them notice you, too caught up in their conversation. Both you and your sister-in-law don’t see a point in calling out to them, simply continuing your walk.

That is, until they drop the dummies, their expressions turning grave. They scream out two certain names before rushing in. 

“M-Master Dion! Stop, please!”

“Master Fontaine!” 

“...huh?” 

“What?” 

You both look at each other, Grizelda looking over her shoulder. There’s a pause before you silently agree to check out what’s the commotion about. You don’t rush, you don’t run, your steps hesitant while hers are confident. She drops the flowers once she peeks inside, still as a statue, eyes wide and mouth ajar - an expression you have never seen on her once, both in this life and your last in illustrations.

You hurry, heart dreadfully drumming against your chest, a hollow pain swelling your chest cavity. Both Dion and Fontaine are in there - just what’s going on? 

The flowers drop to the ground as your grasp loosens. 

Holding the first born against the wall, your husband was choking his own brother. You can’t see his face, but his entire body is tense, putting his all into trying his best not to snap Fontaine’s neck. You can see the veins on his neck and hands.

… it’s a nice sight, until you remember -

He’s not supposed to die yet. Fuck, he’s not supposed to die yet! 

Reflexes taking over, you run over to the two men. 

This isn’t supposed to happen. He’s not supposed to kill him. He’s not supposed to die yet - the story has changed so much already! What happens if he dies right here and right now!?

Someone calls out to you, their voice distant. Hands grab your shoulders, firm but not enough to stop you from shaking them off. You grab him without thinking.

Dion freezes. 

You pull harshly. Part of you wants to watch the scene in full - does he even deserve to live? He’s trash, worse than your husband and yet -

The fear you’re feeling isn’t for your own safety nor is it for his outburst. No, in spite of yourself, it’s for Fontaine’s worthless life -

What happens if he dies right now?

It’s a question you don’t want answered. 

Distantly you feel your head shaking side to side. You don’t stop pulling, but your body is screaming that you should. You ignore it, ignore the nagging voice at the back of your head to let it happen. A lot has changed already.

So, what if this happens? No, you tell yourself, no.

Your gut is twisting painfully, screaming he can’t die now.

Dion looks at you like you’ve gone mad and honestly, you think you have. You shouldn’t be saving his brother’s worthless  life. You don’t want to.

But -

Not yet.

Two words you silently mouth. You dig your feet into the wood as you use all of your strength to attempt to pull your husband away. Of course, it doesn’t work, he’s too big and strong to be physically stopped by you.

His red eyes become blank as his grasp on his brother’s neck slowly loosens. Good. 

He called himself my dog… Dion Agriche, you better keep that promise. You feel gross for calling him one, reducing him to something that has no choice but to listen to you.

You don’t notice how his gaze travels to your chest, the way his eyes narrow once they see the blood stain on your bodice. But you do notice how he tightens his hold on Fontaine’s neck again.

You’re not listening well for someone who said he’s my dog!

These thoughts will haunt you for weeks on end once all of this ends. 

You try another method. It feels shaky as you talk, the words feel heavy. You force them out regardless, scared of what would happen if Fontaine Agriche were to die right here and right now. You can’t let that happen.

Even as a small part of you wishes to praise Dion.

“Dion… please.”

THUD 

Like the obedient dog he promised to be, he lets go. He takes a few steps back and you follow suit. You don’t let go of his arm. You repeat your words from earlier silently. 

Not yet.

The man looks confused before returning his attention to Fontaine. Your eyes also fall onto the older Agriche, small amounts of regret joining the fear in your chest. How are you supposed to take care of this…?

This isn’t like you. 

You blink before you look up at your husband, seeing your reflection in his scarlet eyes. Your lips painfully force a smile and you hope it looks sweet and loving. Your fingers dig into his sleeved arm and you don’t even notice it. 

It takes effort to rub your thumbs across his knuckles after a moment passes. Pretend to be a caring wife, pretend that you don’t want him to stain his hands further.

You can feel your hands tremble. It’s hard to keep smiling. The man before you said he was your dog and he listened like one, which brings forth a new worry -

What if he wants a reward?

You swallow the thought down. “Let’s go back. Please?” You don’t want to return to his room, you don’t want to be alone with him. But if you just leave him here…

Everything after that is a blur. The only thing you remember before reaching his bedroom is his tight grip on your hand. If only you noticed the figure in the background.

- - -

Grizelda stares at her older brother on the floor. He doesn’t make any attempts to get up, and he’s still breathing heavily. His men fret over him, but know better than to touch him. She wonders if he’ll kill them for not forcing Dion off of him. 

The sight was amusing. 

But it was also slightly… concerning.

‘... he listened. Fontaine knows he has a soft spot for her now… not to mention, Dion might even listen to all of her demands… ah, this will either be amusing or horrible.’

She leaves before Fontaine even notices her. 

It’s concerning but also interesting. She slightly smiles in amusement - things will change around here. 

But that amusement is washed away once someone calls her. When she looks at the person, she forces a scowl away. The tattle-tell will rat this out to Lant.

- - -

You’re still scared of your husband. You still hate him.

Your heart won’t stop hammering against your chest. Your hands feel clammy and his larger one holding yours only adds more heat. His pace is enough for you to keep up, but it still feels like he’s dragging you. 

You feel like you’re becoming his little doll. 

You want to cry. You want to scoff. To scream, to encourage his behavior towards Fontaine. But the uncertainty of the future prevents you from doing so, unsure if hell will be let loose if he dies so early, if doesn’t die at the hands of Cassis. 

You bite your lip. None of this should be happening. You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be married. 

But someone has twisted their and your faith for entertainment. 

Wait, you think. Maybe Roxana will pity you some more after learning what happened with Fontaine… hopefully that’ll give her a good enough reason to help you out of this hellhole. 

Then, you realize it -

He knows. 

Your heart drops at the realization. Why else would he try to kill him? So early at that, before the timeskip. Should… should you be happy he knows? That he tried to murder him for you?

But you didn’t ask him to. You might have, you probably would have once you found your voice. Regardless, your skin starts to feel filthy - are you, an unwilling wife, really about to rely on your sadistic and possessive husband? The same man who indirectly told you he would lock you up if you even try to leave?

You can hear your heart beating against your chest. The sound is loud, echoing in your head dully. It hurts, bringing your free hand to clutch at your chest. It does little to soothe the pain.

Breathing becomes difficult. Thinking about anything else is hard. If you’re not thinking about the man in front of you, then your mind reaches for the recent memories of being chased and touched. Threatened with violence.

Your waist starts to tingle where Fontaine gripped it. Your skin feels prickly, dirty. The taste of iron makes itself at home on your tastebuds again. A sharp sting on your bottom lip, the pressure only increases the longer you walk. 

You made a mistake.

You shouldn’t have gone to him. You should have let Grizelda take care of it. You shouldn’t have fucking left the room. 

 He might lock you up after this. He might hover around you more now, might -

A hand gently cups your cheek, handling you with utmost care. Like you were made of glass. However, the touch burns your skin, bringing forth an unpleasant sensation that travels down your spine and drowns in your stomach. 

SLAP!

“Don’t-!” By reflex you slap the hand away, taking multiple steps back until your back hits something sturdy. Pressed against the double doors, your eyes travel to your side, landing on the door handle. Your hand grabs it as you look ahead, seeing the figure of the man who might trap you in this very room, if it means Fontaine won’t touch a single hair on your head.

Safety for freedom - he would be that type of person. The bird he wants to keep is mere inches away from him - it would be easy for him to grab you. But it wouldn’t be in the same manner as Fontaine. Regardless, it doesn’t ease your worries. 

You don’t want to be touched by that pervert but you also don’t want to be trapped by your own husband. 

You don’t want to rely on him, either. He’s scum too, he took you from your family - why else would you be married to him? He probably blackmailed your father, or, or something.

An emotion unfamiliar to you flashes through his eyes. He almost looks hurt, but doesn’t take another step towards you. It’s then do you look around, only to realize you’re in his room.

This stupid room!

Your heavy breathing fills the room. Your head hangs, chest twisting and turning as your heart beats to a tune that’s too loud and heavy. It’s painful, breathing is painful, thinking is painful, you feel dirty -

You look at Dion again. Like a dog, he stays in place, waiting for you to call him. He looks worried and it makes you sick, stomach churning at an expression he shouldn’t even know how to make. This isn’t right. 

This is going against the natural order of things.

This isn’t right. 

A small part of you feels guilty. That small part wants to thank him and even praise him. But the rest of you want to run and hide from him, from Fontaine, from everyone.

Your husband remains quiet as your chaotic state of mind refuses to calm down. Your back presses harder against the door as you slide down, unable to support yourself on your feet and legs anymore. 

Pathetic, I’m pathetic. This isn’t -

Should you blame yourself? Blame him? Fontaine?

Should you blame God?

… you don’t know anymore. You only know how to run and cry.

You should have stayed dead. Ah, but God wouldn’t give you that pleasure, would he?

“Wife -”

“Stop. Please. I’ve been through enough already,” you interrupt, on the verge of bawling your eyes out. You were able to touch him earlier. You smiled at him. You considered praising him on the way back.

What happened?

You were fine with him holding your hand. But now -

“You can’t keep ignoring this-! Whatever delusions you’re living in, they won’t!” 

You should thank him.

You should curse him.

Stay.

Run. 

Praise him.

Degrade him,

Accept him.

Escape him.

Harshly tugging at your hair, you fight with yourself mentally. It was fine, you were fine, you could touch him earlier, so why can’t you now? It feels like your scalp is being ripped apart. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts -

Something grabs your hands. It’s warm but unwelcoming. Firm enough to stop you but gentle enough it doesn’t hurt.

You hate it.

“Hey.” The voice is deep and scratches the back of your mind. It’s pleasant but the person it belongs to isn’t. Wait. No.

It’s not pleasant. It’s horrible, nails on a chalkboard, making your ears bleed. It makes you want to go deaf. You shut your eyes tight.

This isn’t right.

“...let go. You touched me enough, haven’t you?” Your words come out broken, small. He almost has to strain his ears just to hear you. 

“If I do, you'll just hurt yourself again,” Dion states, refusing to let you go. This isn’t romantic. And both of you can’t even pretend that it is.

“... I… I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t ask for this either. I just… wanted some fresh air…,” you trail off, exhaustion catching up. Maybe you’re about to start your period - yeah, that’s it. That explains everything.

You’re just emotional because of the hormones. You’ll be fine in a week from now. This will be a distant memory.

The lie only takes you so far before Dion asks what you meant by that. The first part specifically, and it’s obvious that he’s trying his best not to grip your hands harder. 

Dion… he… he wouldn’t blame you, right?

Hah. one moment you’re fearing him and the next you’re hoping he’ll take your side. You don’t know what you want anymore. You want to sleep everything off. 

You can’t help but hate him. But as a husband, he should know, but you don’t want him as one -

“... he grabbed me. I - I stomped on his foot before he could go further - he ch-chased me but Grizelda he-helped me… I mean, that’s all he did, so I shouldn’t -”

“He would have done more if you didn’t stop him.” 

The fact only makes you curl into yourself. Dion still has a grip on you, not allowing you to escape him. There’s nothing but static in your head. Your body is slowly giving up on you, having to remind yourself to breathe. 

You have a family here, a lovely one. A father who cares. A mother who nurtured you, loved you. An older sister who guided you, a younger brother who teases you. You have a family who you love, who loves you.

Yet, resentment has been building up for a while now, hasn’t it? Small amounts of it that are starting to clump together. No, you shouldn’t, you love them.

But even at the thought of them, your breathing becomes slower. More gaps between each breath. You blink.

Secretly, you’re starting to wish that you would drop dead.

…is living worth it when I struggle to keep up?

It’s a dangerous thought. It darkens the corners of your mind the more it echoes in your head. You’re not supposed to be here. This is supposed to be a fictional world.

These people are supposed to be fictional characters. 

This setting is supposed to be a dark fantasy, survival first and romance second. The Agriche family are only supposed to be names on the screen, beautifully drawn digital pictures to tell the story. You’re not supposed to be here.

But God has decided to make this your punishment.

Are you willing to do it? After all this mental distress? After wanting to survive and escape this hell - are you willing to do it? 

Do you want to?

Living here is death. But your family, they’ll mourn, right? Don’t you want to see them again? Your siblings, your parents - don’t you want to hug and laugh with them?

So, why? Why are you considering -

Because you are weak.

“...” The air is suffocating, something is constricting your throat. Your mouth feels dry and your mind goes blank. You can’t think. The static gets louder and louder, filling your head, ringing in your ears. You were fine earlier.

But now something is tugging at your feet, daring you to stand. It would be easier to just drown at this point. If you’re breaking down just from this… then there really is no hope for you.

Your eyes feel heavy as you force yourself to lift your head and look at bright scarlet. His face looks fuzzy, but your reflection in his eyes is clear. That’s all you can see. 

Today, you decide that you hate bright and vivid red the most.

That Fontaine Agriche is enemy number one.

Your mouth moves but you don’t hear your own words. You don’t see your husband’s expression. You can’t even feel the beating of your heart. You feel nothing but the static filling your little head.

The urge to die has begun to resurface. 

- - -

“You what?” 

Lant’s deep voice becomes lower after hearing the report - unfortunately for everyone involved, a faithful servant to the Black Master overheard and even saw the aftermath of the incident. 

 It was also that same servant who happened to be in the locked room across from Grizelda’s study when Fontaine showed up to wreak havoc. They had debated opening the door until the sibling’s conversation went on.

They decided to wait it out. To trail behind you and the Master’s daughter. He had planned on appearing sooner once he saw the physical assault, but his gut screamed he would die had he did.

The oldest son stands in front of his father’s desk with his head hanging low. Sweat pools at his temples before slowly sliding down his face. His hands are clammy as a million excuses rush through his head.

 He knows that even if he were to tell Lant that you had stomped on his foot, it wouldn’t work for him but against him. Of course, there was a chance you would receive a small punishment for injuring an Agriche, but since it was he who went against Lant’s orders, Fontaine would get the worst of it.

You were off-limits. But the oldest son always had greedy hands.

Grizelda stands off to the side, watching the entire thing unfold. Lant’s faithful servant stands at his side, hands clasped as he awaits for further instruction. Silently she wishes for him to ram his pinky toe into the sharpest corner of a dresser while barefoot.

Fontaine’s men are on their knees, bowing with their head on the floor. The oldest person in the room pays no heed to them. Instead his heated gaze is on his own son.

“F-father… I was just -”

“Silence - I did not give you permission to talk, you fool!” Your father-in-law stands behind his desk as his fist slams down on it, unable to believe that his own flesh and blood would go against his orders. He doesn’t know what punishment to give him. 

He doesn’t even want to see his dull face.

“Where is Dion?” He growls out, holding out a cigar for his servant to light. The smell of smoke starts to fill the room after a few puffs. 

“He took the Lady with him, Master. I saw them on my way to the training room,” the man dressed in black answers. “He was holding her hand.”

A moment of silence before Lant lets out a laugh. “Is that so? Tell them both to stop by later today. I’m curious as to why he reacted so violently.” Dionn wasn’t exactly known to be emotional - he had little to no interests.

The change in his attitude is clear - anger at Fontaine, slight amusement with Dion. The grey-eyed man grits his teeth in silence. He was the one who got choked! 

No-one notices the slight flinch Grizelda gives. This was why she didn’t want to report it - it’ll only cause complications. If her older brother does care about you, then Lant finding out would only bring forth something awful. 

You’re a stranger but this wasn’t your fault. You just were a poor soul who got dragged into this hell.

Her stomach churns at thoughts of possibilities of what could happen. Dion was already unsteady deep down - this would only make it worse. What would happen if Lant does something to you?

“Going back to you,” their father looks at Fontaine again, taking a hit of his cigar. He puffs out smoke, doing his best not to physically lash out at him. Everyone waits with bated breath. 

“The punishment room isn’t enough for you. You dare touch something that isn’t yours? Go against my orders?” 

Lant goes on, watching as his son’s body starts to tremble. It’s a pathetic sight, and could have been avoided if he listened like the good boy he’s supposed to be. “But for now, until I say otherwise, you’re going to be held in a cell without any food or water - I’ll even lash your back personally.” 

Another puff as Fontaine’s head whips up, protests on his tongue. He bites the pink and slimy muscle when Lant glares at him. “As for the girl - she’ll be confined to her room for a few days. She should have had a maid with her - what was her name again…?”

“Hana, Master.” 

“Right. She needs to be punished too.” 

“And what of Young Master Dion, Master Lant?” 

The Black Master stops to think. While it’s true he was in the right - after all, you belong to him - he can’t exactly let him get away with attempted murder on a family member. It’s almost tempting, but then, thoughts might start to pop up in his head.

He doubts Dion will ever betray him. But, at one point, he was also a son to a father who trusted him. He was a son who killed his father. 

Besides… he’s curious. Why would he react so violently? A man who showed no interest in anything, simply carrying out orders. Something’s not adding up.

Or maybe he’s just stressed right now, with the paperwork due and Fontaine being a fool.

“I’ll send him to the hunting grounds. It’ll take at least a month for him to return,” he answers after taking another puff. “Now, who should I replace that maid with…”

“... I’m regretful to say this, but Hana was sent on an errand by the Young Master when this happened. She was preparing the contraceptives on his orders.” 

Lant blinks before sighing. “Right. I forgot about that.” He looks at the stack of papers on his desk - did this really have to happen when so much is due? His teeth grind against each other.

However, before Lant could think of what else to say, the servant spoke up once more. “While we are talking about the Lady… she hasn’t stepped foot in her room once.”

Grizelda’s nails dig into her palms once her father was finally alerted. Still, this could easily be brushed off as Dion simply sleeping with you, addicted to carnal lust. Until that damn man speaks more.

“Even when he’s off on missions, she stays in the Young Master’s room.” 

This is a matter that frankly, doesn’t concern Lant. But does that matter? No. 

“...interesting. I’ll question them about it later.”

Grizelda’s stomach twists. You’re nothing more than a stranger she pities. So, why? Why is this dread so deeply etched into her bones? You only spoke a handful of times before today - you are nothing to her aside from an in-law on paper.

This isn’t like her.

This doesn’t feel natural.

Oh. 

Maybe… something interfered with their faith. With yours.

She scoffs at herself quietly enough that no-one hears. What a stupid thought. Her attention returns to her father. It’s here when he finally speaks to her.

“Grizelda. Tell me, why didn’t you report the incident that made her run into your study?” His accusatory tone is ironically justified, but he doesn’t need to know that. Grizelda has always been a good girl, and she never interacted with you once you moved in.

“I thought it would be best to have her calm down first. I was going to bring it up when we ran into each other in the hallway - but she was still jittery. Please forgive me, father.”

She bows her head before adding, “I’ll accept any punishment you see fit.” 

It goes without saying that Lant considers this for a moment. After a beat, he replies with, “Until I say otherwise, stay in your room.” The same punishment as you. Twins! 

Grizelda mentally cringes at her uncharacteristic thought. What was she, a child?

“Go and bring them both to me. Now.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

The servant leaves with a bow. The room goes quiet, panic in everyone’s head. Lant doesn’t dismiss any of them. His footsteps echo in the room until he stops right in front of Fontaine. He puffs smoke directly into his face, causing his son to cough. 

“Prepare for the worst if she’s pregnant.” 

= = =

Tag list: @umi-adxhira @queenofspades403 @pix-stuff @manitscold

@darkumbreon92 @s-ajia @disappointment-san @louissatturi @cjafjatkstke @rainofcrime @kokomi2 @elvinapandra @ishamyshaa @semi-wife @danae-misfortune @rosedellamorte @labryel @rentaldarling @tiny-mimi @puggyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[ageingfangirl2]

Hazbin Hotel x Child Reader Series

PART 8 - VAGGIE'S SELF-DEFENCE LESSONS

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX TWENTY-SEVEN TWENTY-EIGHT TWENTY-NINE THIRTY THIRTY-ONE

Charlie had left you with Vaggie for one hour. Just one. She had thought, Oh, Vaggie’s responsible. This will be good for them! What she didn’t expect was to return and find you in a full-on combat stance, fists raised, while Vaggie circled you like a trainer in an underground fight ring.

‘Good! Now, if someone tries to grab you, what do you do?’

Without hesitation, you lashed out with a well-aimed kick, ‘Break their knee!’

Vaggie grinned, ‘That’s my kid.’

Charlie froze, ‘WHAT IS GOING ON?!’

You and Vaggie turned to see Charlie standing in the doorway, her hands clasped to her chest in pure horror.

Vaggie sighed, ‘Relax, Charlie, I’m just teaching them some self-defense.’

Charlie gaped, ‘SELF-DEFENSE! They are a child!’

Vaggie crossed her arms, ‘Yeah, a child stuck in Hell surrounded by demons. They need to know how to fight.’

Charlie groaned, rubbing her temples, ‘Okay, but why does it look like you’re training them to kill someone?’

You perked up, ‘She said I should always aim for the weak spots!’

Vaggie nodded, ‘Yup. Knees, throat, stomach—whatever takes ‘em down fast.’

Charlie made a high-pitched squeak of distress, ‘Vaggie, they are a sweet little kid! They don’t need to know how to cripple people!’

Vaggie scoffed, ‘You think being sweet is gonna save them down here? If anything, it makes them an easier target.’

Charlie whimpered, ‘But—but—violence isn’t the answer!’

Vaggie rolled her eyes, ‘Tell that to half the people who live here. Hell, tell that to Alastor!’

Charlie visibly flinched at that, ‘Oh my God, PLEASE tell me you haven’t been telling them to attack Alastor.’

Vaggie looked away, ‘...Not directly.’

Charlie’s stomach dropped, ‘Vaggie…’

Vaggie sighed, rubbing the back of her neck, ‘Look, hypothetically, if something were to happen to Alastor, it wouldn’t be the worst thing.’

Charlie gasped like Vaggie had just committed a crime, ‘Vaggie!’

Vaggie shrugged, ‘I’m just saying, if he happened to disappear one day, Hell wouldn’t exactly suffer.’

You nodded sagely, ‘Yeah, I mean, he does kinda act like a serial killer.’

Charlie let out the most exhausted sigh in existence. ‘Okay, NO. We are NOT teaching them that murder is fine!’

Vaggie shrugged, ‘I’m not teaching them that. I’m just saying, if something happens to Alastor, it’s not that big a deal.’

‘Oho! What’s this? My, my, talking about me behind my back? How scandalous!’

You jumped as Alastor just appeared, his grin uncomfortably wide.

Charlie squeaked. Vaggie immediately moved in front of you, while you just stared up at him, curious.

‘Oh, don’t stop on my account!’ Alastor chuckled, his voice practically dripping with amusement. ‘Go on! I’d love to hear what my dear friends have to say about me!’

Charlie turned red, ‘N-NOTHING! NOTHING AT ALL!’

Vaggie didn’t even flinch, ‘We were talking about how much of a dangerous asshole you are.’

Alastor let out a booming laugh, ‘Ah! Well, that’s no secret!’

You hesitated, then looked up at him, ‘Would it be bad if something happened to you?’

Alastor paused. Then, slowly, his grin widened—but his eyes darkened, ‘Oh, dear child,’ he murmured, voice silky and unsettling, ‘the real question is… what happens to everyone else if something happens to me?’

Charlie looked terrified. Vaggie looked furious.

You? You just blinked, ‘...That sounds kinda ominous.’

Alastor chuckled, ruffling your hair, ‘Oh, it is!’

You watch Alastor swing his cane before turning and walking away, humming to himself. What you couldn’t see was the pure, unadulterated glee on his face that Vaggie was trying to turn you against him. Vaggie was furious and demanded that you not spend time alone with Alastor anymore. Charlie, on the other hand, banned all forms of self-defence training unless she was there to supervise. You happily showed off your skills to Angel, Husk and Sir Pentious, challenging them to fights which they all refused. They knew how tough Vaggie could be, and they didn’t want to think about what she could have possibly taught you.