#to document how having a physical fear response to something i WANT is ruining my life

[imjust-toosoft-forall-ofit]

PDA is hilarious cause I’ll get up and start a pot of coffee, even refill the coffee jar rather than scoop right from the tub. And then I lay back down for “just 10 minutes” and end up locked in bed because the smell makes me actually Want it and now I’m having a minor panic spell and am desperately trying to tell my nervous system that making a cup of coffee won’t kill me.

[revvnant]

discord discourse 6/?; aka i’ve written a lot about michael on discord and need to move all of it here. this was originally sent as a back and forth in message format, and has been edited to be ( relatively ) legible as a standalone post. | evan’s death and the town & elizabeth and the shifting dynamic of the afton household post-baby and pre-sister location. | content warning for discussion of extreme grief, depression, and abuse.

this headcanon assumes two things: that evan was older than elizabeth, making her the youngest afton child, and that there was a substantial gap between his death in 1983 and her death around 1990 ( presuming sister location and the first game take place in 1991-1993, leaving at least six months between the incident at pizza world and michael going to the basement ).

not to be a bitch who recently rewatched twin peaks, but my obsession with the town of hurricane as a character is well-documented on this blog, and i’m very interested in how things change after evan’s death ( the first big shock; a child was just killed at a birthday party, turning william into a subject of sympathy and mike into a social pariah ), then the missing children incident ( i include charlie here for simplicity’s sake, simply every child murdered after evan by william; at first, things are brushed off as coincidences -- she ran away to be with her other family, he’s just missing, etc. -- but the first time tangible evidence of a murder is found, there is a hard ‘it could never happen here’ response that quickly evolves into terror and fearmongering inspired by the media at the time about the fbi, serial killers, and the satanic panic ), and finally with the founders splitting and freddy’s seemingly being under henry’s control while william tries to open circus baby’s and it promptly falls through. there are changes in how they are collectively coping, and it just doesn’t make sense to me narratively or logically to have evan die and then elizabeth immediately afterwards; there needs to be a slow creep here. also the mci.

on a more personal level, post-83 is about michael's reputation imploding. his social life completely falls apart; he was a bully, he maintained his reputation through fear ( very stephen king-core ), he strong-armed people into being his friend by leveraging both his physical strength and his social capital with his father running the restaurant. he kind of sucks. once he does something inexcusably violent, something he can’t come back from, everybody drops him. his friends, not wanting to be connected to the incident, give him the cold shoulder. teachers and other adults in the town assume that he is on the fast track to juvie ( he does not go to juvie ) and their expectations for him plummet, meaning he is without support. most importantly, william either capitalises on or benefits from this public perception. not only can he ride on the sympathy and presumed innocence in connection with the missing children, having lost a child himself, but any attempt by michael to point out the strange shit he gets up to can be shut down with a simple ‘there’s a criminal in this house and it isn’t me’, and that applies to people outside looking in as well -- if you’re going to suspect an afton of wrongdoing, it’s not going to be business-owner and tragic grieving father william, but known killer and delinquent michael.

and i need that to come with a myriad of contradictory emotions in michael. yes guilt! yes self-loathing! but also, the feeling of ostracisation leading to hurt and frustration, and that frustration fermenting into bottled-up anger, which only reinforces what they think of him when he loses his grip and lets it out. he is on the wheel of hurt into anger into shame. he is lying awake at night years after the fact like, ‘is one mistake going to ruin my life?’ and then slapping himself because ‘one mistake’ was killing his brother. he knows that he can’t bring evan back, he thinks it’s unfair that he’s still alive and evan isn’t, and there’s nothing he can do about it but endlessly police himself. every move he makes is scrutinised, and that results in exhaustion and, eventually, explosions.

 he’s afraid to be around children, but he works at freddy’s, he can’t just avoid them; and his fear of seeing another child come to harm manifests as him flipping out and screaming if a child does something he thinks will put them in danger -- drawing their parents’ ire. all this to say, he is not a doormat after evan’s death; he’s stewing in a cocktail of emotions, but he’s not passive and he’s not letting people walk all over him. his attempts to be that way only ever backfire.

and he treats elizabeth like she's made of porcelain, terrified of losing her, too. he was already effectively raising his siblings -- and i’ve actually seen some pushback for this, saying that it woobifies mike or detracts from william somehow, and i disagree. it’s not at all uncommon in some american communities ( including those in utah, without intending to stereotype ) to have eldest children act as primary caretakers, especially in big or busy families. while the aftons are not actively religious, i think it makes sense in the town they live in. it’s just a sort of passive expectation, but the specifics of their home life make it worse than usual. all this to say, michael is extremely protective of elizabeth, perhaps to the point of hovering or being controlling. he does everything with her, devotes his time away from work to her, she’s more of a daughter than a sister to him with an eight year age gap. i’m very much in the camp of ‘william was presents > presence with elizabeth’, a different form of damage to the abuse shown to michael, but damage nonetheless. michael was present, but he wasn’t a parent no matter how hard he tried to be, and the guilt and the self-policing did not stop the pressure from continuing to cook his brain. and maybe something would have given, if william hadn’t gotten there first.

it’s been seven years since evan, they’ve found a new normal, and then elizabeth is gone. moreover, it’s indisputably william’s fault, intentional or not, and mike doesn’t even know about the murder robot. all he knows is that william took elizabeth to a party with his new robots at his new restaurant and she died. that’s blame enough. and here’s william, not knowing how to cope, not because he's super torn up over it being elizabeth personally, but because he broke his own pattern, and because he is forced into a position of understanding. for years michael has been the fuckup who got a child killed in an accident and everyone has hated and blamed him and william has grilled him for it. just absolutely taken advantage of it, actively, passively, whatever, it has been a boon. and now he’s done the same thing, and the tables have turned, and he’s taken someone from michael who cannot be replaced. 

and this is where the doormat kicks in for me. this absolutely destroys mike. he doesn’t speak to anyone for weeks after her death, and it takes him over a month to even look at william again. and i think having to live in a house with a grieving person also has an impact on william. it's not that he suddenly sees the error of his ways, it's that he's trapped with a low functioning boy who now doesn't even have the energy to lash out at him because he killed the light of his life. and to me william is scary because you never know what line he'll cross next, he can do anything and everything, but i also think william is a creature of passion, and that having to just sit and stew in michael's very open very overwhelming grief was not something he could ignore or dismiss.

and the thing is, contrary to the expected results, this leads to them becoming closer. they go full codependent. that house goes into apocalypse mode where they're the sole survivors, a family of five ( with the emilies as close friends adding four more ) reduced to a family of two. i love the idea of william snapping back to normalcy; his guilt is less 'i killed elizabeth' ( i say it every time but even if you have children and you’re also a child serial killer you do not give much of a shit about dead kids ), it was ‘i have put my family on thin fucking ice and the only person i have left in the entire world is completely different now and i have to deal with that’.  he cannot opt out he can't walk away. ( well he could have, he could have been like ‘michael move out,’ but i don't think it even occurred to him. ) they're so scared to upset the status quo because if one more even happens they'll both lose it entirely. william has to stop pushing that button michael has to stop acting out they have to find peace. they’re in the life of pi raft they have no other option. william offers the olive branch of starting over and mike takes it and tries his best to do everything william asks of him and be a dutiful son, and the resentment is just completely dampened and deadened by the depression. there is nothing to lash out for.

they both have to sit there and face this and the aftershocks of it. and i think there is horror in william being like, this was too much this is where i swear it off,' ( the fucking child crusher 9000 ) and trying to flee back to normalcy and build a relationship with the son he abused. mostly predicated not william on suddenly switching to being loving and supporting, but a lot of the abuse just stopping. they both are so tired they barely have energy for anything anymore. it is such a dour house. only for william to die trying to clean up his loose ends and hide evidence. he shoved those things in the basement and they gained semi-sentience. he left the bodies of his victims in the restaurant to rot and when he went back to dispose of them he got sproinged.

it rings poetic to me for the very last death on his roster, michael, to be the one who's ( metaphorically ) carrying all the souls, to be the odd person out in terms of how remnant works ( self-possession of his own dead body ). william tried to run away, he tried to say okay we are closing that chapter of my life, and it blew up in his face. when elizabeth died it was already too late. when charlie died it was already too late. william could have tried for normalcy after evan died and instead 1) decided child murder was really cool and 2) to rub it in michael's face and milk it for all it was worth. and then it happens to him and he's like guhbuh oh nwo ok cleanup time i wanna lay low now and by that point like... that is not an option. he thought evan and elizabeth were bookends. wrong bookends. it started with michael killing evan and ended with michael dying, and now you have to fucking deal with what you set in motion ( the forever zombie revenge stalker ).

[writerlyhabits]

Scenario: Din’s crewmate works really hard. They’ll get so in the zone that they will forget to eat, or forget to stay hydrated, or will stay awake way later than they should. And Din HATES it. He wants you to take care of yourself, and it frustrates him to no end when he sees how exhausted you get only to find out you haven’t eaten today, or have only slept a few hours.

Hi, I'm so sorry this took as long as it did... it was another incident of 'big blank document & big empty brain.' And then once I started going with something I liked, BoBF episodes came out; I had to decide if I wanted to scrap the whole thing and start from a new angle with the content we were gifted, or keep going with what I had.

As you'll see, I went with what I started with because I really did like what @deceiverofgodss and I came up with, so with her seal of approval (thank you my love 💖) I present you something BoBF spoiler-free! Thanks for your patience friends, I hope you enjoy! 😘

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: mild cursing, lack of self-care, subjects of grief and parental loss, Bo Katan being a bitch, pre-established relationship, helmetless Din ... i think that's it?

“Please tell me you’ve moved since I saw you last,” Din asked as he entered the room, talking to the back of your head as he found you perched on the couch, silhouetted by the glow of the holo pad in the dark room. You didn’t respond, but he already had the answer to his question. He knew that if you had been mobile or at least conscious of the world around you, there would have been another source of light other than the screen in your hands.

Din moved through the small living space of the inn’s most expensive suite on Nevarro to get to you, a generous gift from Greef as you stopped by on your travels. Din knew it would be in exchange for help in some fashion, but he didn’t mind the work… it was a good distraction. That’s why he’d brought the two of you here in the first place; a distraction, a break from everyone and everything that had been consuming your life as of late.

The darksaber that had found itself in his possession came with a whole world of burdens and responsibilities Din had never planned on taking. He stepped into the role of Mand’alor when it became clear there would be no avoiding it and took you by his side, your marriage earning you the same title, much to Bo Katan’s chagrin. And she made her opinion heard loud and clear.

“Mandalore should never have fallen into the hands of a Child of the Watch and his aruetii,” she had sneered. He remembered seeing that your stone solid expression hadn’t changed in her presence, holding your tongue better than he did, Din having made a snide comment in retaliation that only riled up the redhead more. But what got to him was the way you broke once it had just been the two of you.

“She’s right… before you try and argue, tell me that these clans will take us seriously enough to help reclaim Mandalore when their leader doesn’t even wear beskar’gam. That they’ll give us the time of day when I haven’t even sworn the creed.”

“You said your vows, you live by them as I do. You are my riduur, as I am yours. That makes you Mandalorian,” he had tried, an attempt to reassure you, but he could tell you were hesitant. He couldn’t blame you though; as much as he wanted to knock Bo Katan to the ground for saying it, your fears had roots.

After trying to figure out what he had inherited in his new role, the planet of Mandalore was not only in physical ruin, but was shrouded in rumors of curses and uneasy mystery. The two of you had agreed that if you had any plans to reclaim the planet as the home of the Mandalorians, your strength would lie in your numbers. This was what had sent you traveling through the galaxy, set on tracking down Mandalorian clans and earning their support for when the time came.

These travels, of course, left you and Din in the near-constant company of Bo Katan and her cronies; while she may have been snide and hell-bent on power, one for changing terms as she saw fit… she was the most knowledgeable on the planet’s history you had encountered thus far. She proved herself somewhat useful, but was on thin ice with the snide authority she continued treating the two of you with, and Din was at his end.

As the Mand’alor, he felt it was in his power to take his wife on a well-deserved vacation, and had whisked you away to Nevarro to take a breather. Something you hadn’t gotten since before you’d gotten married, having defeated a Krayt Dragon within the same week. And you still needed time to properly process the absence of the littlest member of your clan.

His body was desperate for rest as he moved to stand in front of your position on the couch, weary with the work he’d put himself through to keep other thoughts and memories at bay. When you didn’t move, he removed his gloves and placed them on the table beside you.

“Mesh’la, when was the last time you ate?” he asked softly as he brushed a piece of hair out of your face, hoping to bring you out of your trance. He ran the back of his knuckles along your soft cheeks, hooking them under your chin to gently bring your focus up to his face, your eyes glassed over as you processed his question.

“How long ago did you leave?” Dank farrik, not again. He’d had breakfast with you before he’d left, a quick ration pack, telling him you’d make more after he left. This was the third time he’d come home to find that not only did that second helping never come, but neither did lunch or dinner.

“Gar shuk meh kyrayc…” he huffed as he took long strides to reach the kitchen as fast as possible, needing to give your body the proper fuel to continue functioning.

“You’re no use dead…” you translated, having been learning and teaching yourself the language during your travels in an attempt to relate closer with the Mandalorians you would meet with. This was where the holopad had first come in. “What do you mean?” While you had done a remarkable job in learning the literal aspects of the language, you were still frustrated and how far behind you still seemed to be since Mando’a was very figurative, few literal translations ever properly expressing the meaning of their statement.

“It means you’re working yourself to death. That you need to rest, and properly take care of yourself,” he explained pointedly, returning with a rehydrated ration pack. Not his ideal meal for this situation, but he knew you’d be able to eat it, and that was more important right now. “Give me the holopad so you can eat something.”

“No, I can eat while I read,” you argued, holding the pad in one hand while you opened up your palm for him to deposit the container.

“Cyar’ika please, you’ve been looking at that thing all day.” He set the food on the table just to the side of you, bracing himself on the back of the couch as he leaned in close to try to get through to you. “You’ve been working so hard, it’s time for a break.”

“Nu draar, Din,” you grumbled, using a Mando’a phrase that expressed a very hard no. You were too damn smart for your own good… He wanted to be proud of you for your progress, but he was busy trying to break through your stubborn determination to celebrate the small victory.

"You're not eating unless I sit down and eat with you, you haven't been sleeping. Don't think I don't notice that you don't move between the time I'm asleep and the time I get up,” he reminded, trying to be both stern and gentle to express just how worried about you he was. “Nothing you’re going to find on that holopad is worth all of this!”

"Okay, and then what? I put the holo pad down and hear criticism through one ear, skepticism in the other… And then when my head hits the pillow at night the only thing I can think of is him.” With your last sentence your voice broke, the emotion you seemed to be hiding behind endless nights of research and work finally breaking through. Your eyes started well up in tears as they came overwhelmingly fast, and he could feel his own do the same. “I know giving him to the Jedi was the best thing for him, I do… but I just want him back. My body wakes up in the night to cries that aren't there. My arms feel empty, and there’s a hole in my chest where he should be.”

Your body shook with the tears that had welled up inside of you for too long, and it took Din a moment to realize he’d frozen in place, wrapped in his own grief. It was one you shared, and one you handled in different ways; coping mechanisms more similar than you realized, throwing yourselves into work to distract you from the pain. But Din had someone to take care of, he had you, his beloved riduur. He played the big strong bounty hunter, the provider, as he always did. With his covert, with you, with your clan of three….

But you had been left with empty arms as your heart struggled to heal the gaping hole Grogu had managed to weasel himself into. He’d had you wrapped around his finger within moments, Din having been much the same. But your recovery was not in caring for someone new. You’d holed yourself away and worked yourself to death to numb the constant ache.

Din gently took the holo pad from your hand and set it aside so he could take your hands in his. He sat on the small couch beside you, pulling you into his lap and resting your hands around his neck before lifting his hands up to the rim of his helmet. Your breath caught when his helmet had been placed to the side, always quick to admire your husbands’ beautiful features when you were given the chance.

His warm brown eyes were watery just like yours, not the first of his tears shed over the loss. His brows were raised in sympathy as he looked at you, soft lips in a pout as one of his hands cupped your face in his palm to caress your cheek with his thumb.

“Almost every night since he’s been gone, there’s been this strange pull. It- I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s this feeling that just washes over me; it eases my mind, I know he’s safe, that he’s taken care of,” Din tried to explain, your turn to sort of freeze as you listened. “I don’t know how his powers work… but it’s him. It feels like Grogu.”

“How do you know?” you whispered, fearful your voice would break with any more strain. Din took a moment to look at you as he sorted through the thoughts in his head, the strange sense that would wake him in the night, and the different feelings they invoked in him.

“He misses you… just as much as you miss him.” He’d barely been able to finish before his voice began to betray him, something he’d only struggled with as of late, usually able to keep his cool exterior intact when he desired.

You had let his words linger in the air for a few moments, letting them settle before your body was wracked with a heartbreaking sob, doubling over to curl into Din’s body, your face nestled in the crook of his neck while your arms could do nothing more than hang onto his chest plate. He stroked your back comfortingly as tears fell down his face, your sobs muffled into the flight suit still underneath his armor.

The two of you stated that way for a very long amount of time, clinging onto your clan of two as the complicated emotions course through your bodies. After long enough though, Din had made sure you were hydrated, keeping you tucked up into him for comfort as you slowly got yourself through the ration pack, adamant in your need for basic personal care.

It was the first night in a long time that you had settled into bed next to your husband, both in soft leisurewear as you relaxed into the pillows. Though it came with its own struggles, a slow stream of tears across your cheek as you fell asleep on Din’s shoulder, experiencing Grogu’s pull for the first time.

He’s safe, he’s cared for… but he misses you, his buirs, every single day.

...

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[shattered-catalyst]

Intro to OCD for the RPC part 1/?

This is a balmy 6 page document on the VERY BASICS of OCD by a person who has had OCD for over 15 years and knows their shit.

If you want to write a character who has OCD this series is going to be a good starting point. If you dont know much about OCD I encourage you to read it so you can be an ally to those of us who have the disorder.

OCD is made into a cultural joke and when there isnt the ‘Obsessive Cat disorder’ bullshit its an angst off with other people and their non-ocd intrusive thoughts. Its different. Do your research and be an ally.

This will cover the very very basics. The next post will look into subtypes of OCD and how those are experienced.

 Whomst can write it? 

Literally anyone as long as you 

● Do so respectfully and not make a mockery of the disorder and the harm it causes in peoples lives 

● Dont make OCD the characters single thing or boil them down to it entirely ● Do respect the experiences and opinions of muns who have the disorder if they have concerns about your portrayal.

● Dont milk it for angst - unless you have OCD in which case release some of your angst.

● Dont try and say you know what intrusive thoughts are because they have *insert any other neuro a-typical thing here* 

● Dont police how Muns who have OCD choose to portray it. Its our experience not yours. I like to write out my characters OCD as I experience OCD so my experiences are different from other muns. OCD is very diverse in its effects but always ask if you arent sure.

. What isnt OCD? 

● Cleanliness or organization- OCD is NEVER an adjective. 

● Planning/ Hypervigilance/Organized/Methodical 

● Turning light switches on and off, unplugging things (find out more on later time)

 ● “I have to organize my pencils otherwise it bothers me” “ I have to make sure my mattress is straight” “ my nails have to be the same length” are all typical responses from people WHO DO NOT have OCD. 

● Making sure objects are lined up neatly 

● Having things go in a particular order like the letters CDO as the joke goes

● Really loving Cats, Corgis, or Christmas; if you own any of these items i urge you to reflect and also send me 10$ (jk but do reflect)

The Barest minimum 

Google OCD this will be an advanced version of OCD. This will be long but if you want to be aware of others or want to write the character you will read it. 

OCD is made of Obsessions. Triggers. Anxiety, Compulsions/Rituals.

1. Obsessions are the thoughts 

2. Triggers are the object/person/image/situation/smell ETC 

3. The Anxiety occurs is at uncomfortable levels to the point of panic or anxiety attacks

 4. Compulsions or Rituals are performed 

*There is a variant of OCD called Pure O. In this individuals have the obsessions triggers and anxiety but there is NO compulsion or ritual. This is still valid OCD. 

Obsessions are the precursors to the flawed unwanted and harmful intrusive thoughts: 

Im going to use you so you really understand this because its important.If you misunderstand this you are basically encouraging a mental health condition and dont get a sticker for reading this far. 

First check out this link as it has ALL the subtypes and examples. 

Obsessions can be hidden by the intrusive thought and teasing them out can be difficult to do if you have the disorder because well its a disorder okay thats why. It boils down to ‘i could harm someone’ ‘i could cause harm’ ‘ i may have accidentally harmed ___’ ‘ i may accidentally harm’ etc 

This is the flawed powerful belief that predate the Intrusive Thought. 

Intrusive thoughts appear in every brain on earth. They are not special or unusual however intrusive thoughts with OCD get stuck in the brain- meaning they stay there no matter what you do. So yes , they are different from intrusive thoughts in other conditions. 

The thing about OCD is that it latches on to what you hold dear; it may be you are a caring person and love children and animals- your OCD would give you intrusive violent or sexual thoughts or images. These are horrible to experience. They are not welcome nor appreciated and there is no benefit or positive side to having them. 

If say social justice is something you hold dear your ocd may take the form of intrusive thoughts of slurs, jokes, visuals etc. These are horrible to experience and lead to high levels of anxiety and are not positive nor beneficial to have in any way shape or form. 

Maybe you would not harm someone or you value others; your OCD may present as graphic intrusive images or thoughts around poisoning, stabbing,accidental..ly murdering (yeah you read that right), hitting, insulting etc someone else 

I must emphasize this because it is critical that people understand POCD: for the sake of those of us who have OCD read this until its burned into your brain. 

This is the fucked up awful Obsessive thought that you are/were/ or could be sexually attracted to children. This is NOT pedophilia. People kill themselves over this because they are afraid that these intrusive thoughts are true. People isolate themselves and dont have families out of fear of harming a child. People take work in different fields or avoid areas with children out of the absolute terror their obsessive thoughts could be true. This is NOT pedophilia. There is NO attraction present.

Most people who experience POCD intrusive thoughts would rather punch a sharknado than even THINK of hurting a kid in any way shape or form. That is why the OCD does its thing it is like having an abusive brain. 

Again for clarity's sake 

If you value social justice -> the intrusive thoughts violate social justice stuff 

If you value animals -> intrusive thoughts come up with harming animals 

If you care about the protection and safety of children -> POCD 

Triggers would be the situation, scenario, object, person,creature, context etc that is related to the Obsession. It can be literally anything. 

What follows is a hell of a lot of anxiety that can range anywhere from discomfort to full on panic attacks. 

Everyone has different intrusive thoughts and everyone experiences different amounts of distress upon being triggered. 

● As a side bar. Do not ever try and expose someone to their triggers or write about a character being exposed to their triggers as a way to help ‘cure them’ or ‘expose them’ to ANYTHING. What you are doing is literally taking someone with a mental illness and shoving them into a breakdown and thats a piece of shit move. Exposure therapy does exist and is done by professionals TRAINED in ERP. My parents did this a lot and I am positive I am not alone in that experience. 

Compulsions or Rituals: Now you may be saying ‘hey i know what those are’ yeah dude me too and I have had ocd for over 15 years and trained in mental health for 7 and guess what. They teach ya wrong. 

Compulsions or ‘rituals’ are any behavior done to alleviate the anxiety from the intrusive thought and trigger object. 

This can be as passive as ‘i am leaving the room’ ‘ i am checking my body sensations’ ‘ i am trying SO HARD TO HEAR MY HEARTBEAT’ .

 It can also be repeating the same thing over and over. To illustrate this I once mentally chanted the same song lyric line on a 3 hour plane ride because otherwise we were all going to die. I took one for the whole team.

It can be somatic things like counting your heart beats, focusing on your breathing, swallowing, staring and not blinking for so many seconds. 

It can be readjusting clothing until the seams fit. It can be checking god yes checking IK its a common trope but it IS a compulsion that has ruined my life and can be as passive as checking my reality or texting for proof my cat is still alive. It can also be checking yourself for assurance you wouldnt do the intrusive thought or that the intrusive thought isnt going to happen.

Compulsions are mentally painful and sometimes physically painful; 

● Washing your hands with scalding water for 5+ minutes can lead to horribly dry and cracking skin to down right BURNS.

● If you do the same movement you can mess up joints and ligaments. So if you pray constantly you may have knee issues from standing and kneeling.

● If your compulsion has you doing movement against an object ie say gripping and regripping something you get callouses. 

● If you compulsively exercise you may get trapped doing something above a healthy amount or say going from not working out to running a five minute mile and wiping out on a treadmill because your brain demanded it. Totally didnt do that... 

● If your compulsions make you rub against any object you can get friction burns and scars. 

To put this in perspective 15 years of compulsions have left my hands and finger joints a complete mess, damaged my arm tendons, friction scars on my arms that only now faded, and scars on my legs from doing too much of an activity. 

Its not lmao I gotta fix these pencils its real agony and real torture. 

In short compulsions and rituals are not fun they are absolutely not logical, and we know they are not logical but we are forced to do them. Thats why its a disorder. 

OCD disrupts relationships with social components such as ; 

Obsessively checking in with partner/friend if things are ‘okay’ (this feels horrible to do too fyi like you KNOW things are fine but you cant NOT because the anxiety is SO BAD), 

Relationship OCD is a WHOLE category itself! this ties into sexuality OCD where your obsessive thoughts prey on your sexuality (regardless of your orientation), your relationship, cheating or being disloyal etc.

OCD causes significant withdrawal from others, fears of being a monster, intense guilt over intrusive thoughts, disgust with yourself over the intrusive thoughts sometimes leading to self punishment. 

OCD leads to strange behavior which more often than not leads to bullying and ostracization. To exemplify this I have an intrusive thought that I have stolen something when I am inside stores, my check-check-check-check-check-recheck! of my pockets gets me store security called so often its criminal.

OCD limits activities that may expose them to triggers or influenced by intrusive thoughts ie: not being able to take the train to work or only getting off at bus stops with even numbers.

OCD impacts where they spend time, who they associate with, what jobs they take or even if they have a family or not

OCD leads to overwhelming feelings of guilt, shame, and fear over having intrusive thoughts or images that they experience which causes them to socially isolate or have difficulty in social situations. 

OCD leads to Hyperfixation: like a lot of other things but thankfully it is just hyperfixation and not different from other diagnoses. 

OCD leads to rigidity or structured routines: I have listened to the same CD in my car for 5 years now. Every single day. 5 Years.And Im not okay with that. 

OCD impacts standards we hold ourselves to and others: its like regular perfectionism but like add on 5 extra layers of anxiety! 

OCD according to NIMH statistics 

1.2% Occurrence among US adults 

2.3% Lifetime Prevalence among US adults 

34.8% Of Adults who have OCD suffer moderate impairment to daily functioning 50.6% of Adults who have OCD suffer serious impairment to daily functioning

OCD has strong co-morbidity with the following:

Tourettes Syndrome- is a genetic friend of OCD and if you have tourettes or OCD your chances of having someone else in the family is high

ADHD

Autism 

GAD

Eating Disorders

Depression - this is a big one along with low self esteem because of the intrusive thoughts

Writers like to make jokes about characters “being OCD” well now they have clinical OCD and you should consider fleshing out your character with this information just as you would any other disorder.

Batman (DC)

Riddler (?)(DC)

Domino (Marvel)

 Cyclops (Marvel)

[yandere-daydreams]

Toga cockblocks shoto because of ethics. So what about their darling finally wanting to murder that pretty boy. How does Shoto react to their missing darling killing people for the LOV.

Here’s a link to their ‘meet-cute’, but all you really need to know is that Toga helped her new friend escape, and they’re both very eager to do something *awful* to the Pro-Hero in-question. I’m just eager to give my favorite duo some cathartic violence.

TW: Mentions of Past Abuse, Physical Violence, Verbal Abuse and Burning.

~

You couldn’t say you hadn’t been looking for Shoto. Not that you were happy to see him, when you found your target.

He looked worse-for-wear, if you were being honest with yourself. Even in the dim streetlights, you could see the bags under his eyes, the raw points on his fingertips where he’d been picking at his cuticle, red strands mixing with white at the part of his usually perfectly styled hair. You were used to looking for things like that, searching for signs of stress when he came home. Still, it was impossible to tell where he wanted to kiss you or kill you, most days.

Although, the sharp glare he wore helped to push you towards the latter.

Shigaraki had told you not to engage, he ordered you not to engage. You were supposed to scout the area, document which Heroes were active, and you weren’t supposed to fight anyone. But you didn’t think you’d see Shoto, let alone allow him to see you. His sidekick must’ve spotted your hideout in the run-down, abandoned apartment building you’d chosen, and now, you were cornered, left to either jump out a fifth-story window or face the man you’ve been dying to put a few new holes in. 

It wasn’t a fair choice, really. 

The moment Shoto opened his mouth, you were running at him, a knife in one hand and your quirk ready to fill the other. Your ability, Inventory, was useful like that, and you’d stocked it full of blades and medical kits, anything and everything you could get your hands on. A shield, circular and steel, was enough to block the spears of ice Shoto sent in your direction, the tool pinned in place by the time you were able to swerve around his attack. You didn’t have to plan, choosing a spot in Shoto’s chest and putting your full-force behind the plunge, attempting to drive the small knife into his lungs before…

Before you hesitated.

He was a monster, you knew that. A psychopath, a kidnapper, an abuser. But, for a moment, he was the same scared, scarred man who’d opened up to you, crying and telling you about his father and stealing such sweet kisses between meetings and missions, not the same person who just… took what he wanted, whether or not your motivations lined-up with his. It only lasted for a moment, but you faltered, tripping over your feet and letting your knife fall to the floor as you stumbled. Shoto was quick to catch you, his foot finding your diaphragm and knocking you back, your cheek soon pressed to the dusty wall and one arm pinned to your back, the other forced to still by Shoto’s grip. That anger you felt was familiar, almost nostalgic, but it was quickly stifled by the utter fear soon running through your veins.

“This is where you’ve been?” Shoto growled, pressing into your spine harshly enough to make you grimace. You didn’t whimper, despite how the noise tore at your throat as you swallowed it. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, you couldn’t. “Squatting in such a disgusting place, dressing like a fucking whore… Is this what you decided was better than staying with me?” He paused, taking a moment, the anger in his voice taking a turn towards pure hostility. “Is loving me that bad?”

“No one hurts me, here.” You couldn’t bring yourself to put any feeling behind the words, they were objective to you, fact. They weren’t opinions Shoto could sway with tears and a sob-story. “You didn’t love me, Shoto, you didn’t even try to. People who love each other don’t do the things you did to me.”

His grip loosened, more out of shock than anything. It was only for a second, but you were able to pry yourself out of his grip long enough to manifest a machete in your dominant hand, swinging around and attempting to embed it in his shoulder. His left hand was encased in flames before you could react, forcing you to drop the weapon as he took hold of your wrist, letting your skin smolder under his palm. “I cared about you, isn’t that enough? Everything I did was for you, that is love.”

“That’s obsession,” You snapped, driving your heel into his foot. He flinched, wincing, but refused to let go. You didn’t care, you were irrational, bringing the strongest taser you had in your collection to the surface and jabbing at him wildly, refusing to stop as his fire threatened to melt your flesh from its bone. “You took something good and you ruined it, you ruined us, just admit it! You knew what you were doing, you manipulated me!” There was a lapse, giving you time to push out an irritated groan as he attempted to disarm you. “I wanted to help you, do you know that? I tried to help you. You’re the one who wouldn’t accept that you needed it.”

Shoto didn’t respond to that, his gaze only narrowing further. You weren’t weak, but it wasn’t hard for Shoto to overpower you, weeks of immobility and under-stimulation putting you below such an active Pro. He iced over the floor swiftly, slamming you into a layer of frost as he tripped you before moving to your shoulder and pushing you down until you were flush against the ground. “You used to be so nice,” He sighed, relaxing as you squirmed uselessly. “I’ll bring that back, don’t worry. Once you stop playing villain, this’ll all go away, and we’ll be as happy as we used to be.”

“Fuck off.” You were sure he has some infantilizing response planned, but a series of soft, hasty footsteps was quick to silence him. Shoto went tense, only to lower his guard when his new sidekick poked her head through the door, innocent worry and such genuine concern painted across young features, the implications instantly making your vision go red. The jealousy hit you hard, fast, burning in some deep, dark part of your mind before you smothered it, your self-restraint growing a little weaker as Shoto spoke.

“Don’t call the police, this is going to be a personal arrest.” He sounded professional, authoritative. You wouldn’t have thought twice about believing him, a few years ago. “Trust me. This one’s too dangerous to be detained.”

You twisted around to see the sidekick’s reaction, but rather than the skepticism you expected, you were met with a wide, toothy grin, relief watching over you in waves once you realized what was going on. Shoto didn’t stand a chance, the knife already in his side by the time he thought to second-guess his assistant. Toga helped you to your feet without being asked, eyeing your injured wrist and bruised chin with a nearly malicious glint in her eye. 

Or… someone else’s eye, you guessed.

“We should kill him, while we’re here,” You suggested, trying not to let your passion show. She was still holding your hand, squeezing it every so often, like she was worried you’d disappear. “It’d save us the time of hunting him down again.”

Toga shook her head, leaning into your side. “Tomura would be so mad. We aren’t supposed to stir things up, yet.” She took a step back, starting to tug you towards the door, your eyes never leaving Shoto’s struggling form. He tried to get up, but all it took was a firm kick to his stomach to keep him down. “Leave him alone, (Y/n). We have to trust the Boss’ plan.”

There was another reassuring squeeze, another smile on her part, but even as she dragged you towards the dilapidated hall, you couldn’t take your mind off Shoto. You wanted to end him here, to get rid of that stain and never have to think about him again. You didn’t want to follow Tomura, you wanted to make sure he never hurt anyone again. You wanted to make sure he never hurt you again.

But, you trusted Toga. You trusted the League. 

So you bit back your complaints and moved forward, walking a bit faster until you were at Toga’s side, holding her hand as tightly as she held yours.

[monsterdoodles]

Thoughts on Steven Universe Future 3-13-2020

Together Forever: This episode was a lot less about Steven and Connie, and more about just Steven than expected.

Connie has some plans for college, but we don’t quite get to know what her career goals are exactly. She’s planning on getting into politics, but I’m not sure at what level or what branch. Not that that matters to the episode too much or anything. The University of Jayhawk is all the across the country from Delmarva. This is a distance that Steven cannot emotionally handle right now. Upon this realization, he sinks down into his bed, part of his “floating” powers.

It is good to see that he and Connie keep in touch at least over video calls. On a slightly more concerning note, Steven has memorized Connie’s schedule down to the minute.

Garnet says at the end of the episode, that there was no future in which Steven wouldn’t propose to Connie. I’m guessing had he talked to Garnet instead, he would have proposed to her out of spite or in an effort to prove Garnet wrong.

Instead of Garnet, we do get Ruby and Sapphire this episode. Steven doesn’t seem too surprised by their appearance in this episode, so I imagine that they have been teaching these classes for a while. Ruby is doing some kind of nature scout class, did she make those badges herself, or are they part of a nationally recognized scout organization? Either way she’s teaching some gems and Onion about the beauty of nature. Steven tells her about how Connie seems to really have her life together and knows what she is doing.

I can see a parallel here with Ruby and Sapphire, and Steven and Connie. In this particular case, Steven is Ruby. He doesn’t have the foresight that Connie does right now. He, in a way, lacks future vision.

Ruby, either lacking the knowledge of what might be socially acceptable or being too excited about prospect of Steven expressing his love, tells Steven that he should propose to her. Ruby’s logic here is that it worked for her. She ignores the fact that she and Sapphire had been together for over 5000 years and that they are adults.

Steven visits Sapphire as well, she is teaching a class on alternate timelines. I wonder what that entails exactly. I suppose that they do all of those equations that she explained to Steven, but with the understanding that the future still isn’t as predictable as one might think. She also encourages Steven to propose to Connie despite the fact that she is aware of the sociological implications of this, but she’s a hopeless romantic about it anyways.

Steven declare to the gems, that this will be his last day as Steven Cutie-Pie Demayo Diamond Quartz Universe. Interesting that that interaction with Garnet from almost 4 years ago left that impression on him. That is the same day that he learned about future vision, so I suppose that just stuck in his mind. Also, was he planning to take Connie’s last name or add Maheswaran to his plethora of middle names (that he thinks belongs on official documents for some reason).

He makes his plan. He gets jam, glow sticks and cake. On top of the world, he dresses his best and asks her out from outside her window. He says they’ll be back in 15 minutes (this reminds of an episode of How I Met Your Mother, but the season and name escape me).

At the beach, in the same place they first met, Steven has a picnic set up. Had this just be a romantic gesture or a proposal to date, not marriage, things probably would have gone a lot better for him. Connie responds well to all this. She has been shown to have romantic feelings for Steven in the past, she attempted to kiss him in An Indirect Kiss and she successfully kissed him on the cheek in the movie. Steven sings his song with the sentiment of “I want to be me with you”. The lyrics of which, like many love songs in my opinion, have a codependent quality to them. Steven doesn’t know his future, so he wants someone else to be his future, to be someone else.

Connie, very sensibly, says no. They are young, have never discussed this, and I’m pretty sure they aren’t even an item. She also tells him, “It’s a not now” because there is plenty of time. Steven is in his unending quest for stability, and he still hasn’t found it.  Throughout this conversation Connie and Steven occupy opposite spaces on screen. They are in different places in their lives right now, sure and unsure, stable and unstable.

I think if Steven were around more teens his age, he might not be feeling this way, so much at least. He would realize how many people don’t have their lives figured out at this age. Many people his age just want to graduate high school. He really needs to talk to Greg about this. Greg wanted to be a musician, but he was also a community college drop out. He didn’t have everything figured out. (I’m pretty sure this will be part of next week’s episodes in some way)

Connie is willing to stick around when her alarm goes off. Steven tells her to go, probably because he doesn’t want to burden her and because he won’t be holding it together for long. As soon as she leaves, he lies back and creates a crater. The shockwaves ruining the picnic. He lies there until dark.

When he gets up, Garnet is there. She explains to him the inevitability of this situation. She tells him that the hole he is trying to fill won’t be filled by Connie or Stevonnie. Connie is not his “missing piece”. In this scene, Garnet is towering and Steven feels almost as small as his younger self. I think this accentuates how young and foolish Steven was this episode. He holds a frustrated look during this conversation. He says he blames Garnet for making this all look so easy. Reminds me of Cry for Help/Friendship. Pearl had felt the same way about Ruby and Sapphire/Garnet. Steven and Pearl craved that perceived perfection.

Steven then eats his feelings.

Growing Pains: I was wrong in my prediction that Steven would either be stuck in pink mode or have a human ailment.

The episode opens with a scene from the newest instalment of dogcopter. In the movie, Dogcopter proposes to a dog named Drew. Steven laments the fact that “everyone else is getting married”. He continues to eat his feelings like at the ending of last episode, and then his body starts getting out of control. He keeps growing sporadically. He mostly ignores it because it doesn’t hurt him physically.

He wants to reach out to someone who isn’t Connie right now. He can’t reach the gems, so he calls Greg, who is on tour with Sadie and Shep right now. Greg is having a great time, and Steven won’t rain on that parade, even when Greg offers to call him back. He almost wants to call Connie, but she calls him instead. His shapeshifting forces him to answer her call.

He can no longer hide what’s going on with him, since it is manifesting physically. Connie suggests that he should see a doctor. He doesn’t want to bother anyone even when he is physically unwell. He even describes it as a waste of time. Connie persuades him.

Steven pays Doctor Maheswaran a visit, Connie escorts him in. As soon as Connie leaves the room for them to conduct tests, she calls Greg.

This episode really explores how both human and gem Steven really is. He has a human body and it is effected like a human body is. But he is also a gem, it makes his body react unusually and if he’s fractured skeleton is any indication, it is keeping him alive.

Dr. Maheswaran finds out about Steven’s physical traumas through his x-ray. She asks him if he had any particularly traumatic experiences. Steven basically recalls the entire show. Dr. Maheswaran goes on to describe the physical aspects of trauma and the way the body reacts in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen in any piece of fictional media. Steven’s body is trying to protect him from danger that isn’t there anymore. Minor stress to him is now the equivalent to major stress. To make things worse, he feels as though his support system is gone.

When he thinks back to the proposal, things go haywire. As his body continues to grow in size, he takes up more and more of the room. He is almost too big to fit. There is nowhere left for him to hide. He yells “I can’t be around you right now” much in the way he yelled “I just want to fix it” back in Volleyball. His yell shatters the windows.

Greg finally arrives, revealing that Connie had called him. Connie still very much cares about Steven. He explains to Greg that everything feels like the end of the world to him now.

Receiving understanding and support from Greg is what gets Steven to go back to his normal size. At home he continues to explain his fears and worries. All of which, as Greg explains, are normal. Steven now knows what his problem is, or at least one aspect of it, but I don’t think his problems are solved just yet. From the way he “swells up” in response to stress in this episode, I think something big is about to happen in the show. Something so big, that for his body to protect him from it, he will grow into the giant monster from the opening theme song.

Predictions for next week:

Discussion of leaks ahead

Mr. Universe: Still no episode description for this one, but I imagine this is where Steven crashes the van. Steven is still not in a great place right now, and while he seems more willing to talk about things, his body is still reacting in a way that is unsafe for him and others. I believe that this will lead to the van crashing. As others have pointed out, this episode may involve Pearl because she played a big part in the episode Mr. Greg. I still somehow think this episode will be the story of how Rose decided to have Steven, if not it will be about how Greg made the decision to drop out of college and take on the rockstar persona Mr. Universe.

Fragments: This is where that first leak came from, the “leave me alone I need space one”. I’m still not 100% sure what “fragments” is in reference to. Others I have discussed with have suggested memories. I am not entirely sure the direction of this.

[sinkodoinggood]

Dear Dad (TW cursing, emotional abuse)

Dear Dad,

Does it make you happy to yell at people? Does it make you feel powerful? Is that honestly how you expect to have a happy and healthy relationship with your family? How do you really think it will end if I feel like I can’t have an actual conversation with my dad unless its about something he likes or what we need from the grocery store? Your yelling is hurting everyone in this family, and I know this because the shit you put my poor brother through is ridiculous. He has gone out of his way in the past to avoid you because he legitimately fears you and that is heartbreaking to see as an older sibling. I can’t have a conversation with you about it and you refuse to just go to fucking therapy already because you CLEARLY have a lot of shit to work through. I am absolutely serious, if you want to avoid giving everyone under 18 in this house severe daddy issues, sort out your shit IMMEDIATELY. Man the fuck up, swallow your stupid masculinity, and go to fucking therapy. We are so sick of this bullshit you put us through. I can’t talk to you when you’re upset, I can’t talk to you when my brother’s upset (because chances are you’re the reason he’s upset in the first place) and I can’t talk to you when Mom’s upset because you get your panties in SUCH a twist when she’s upset that it actually ends up doing a LOT more harm than good. Ever think of that? Hmm? Are your only two modes “normal human voice” and “rage”? I don’t know what shit you went through in your childhood that made you turn out like that, but get it under control because the things you say are so hurtful. We can’t defend ourselves, we can’t explain ourselves, we can’t have an actual conversation like healthy humans when you’ve decided that WE ARE WRONG and that obviously makes you immediately, indefinitely right. Are you aware that age doesn’t make you right? Did you know that sometimes you can handle situations wrong, and that we should be able to tell you when you’re hurting us even if we’re just kids and you’re the adult? You also probably didn’t know this, but being loud doesn’t make you right either. How many times have I raised my voice at you in the past five years? How many times have I told you how I really feel, like you’ve had the chance to do so many times? The only incident I can think of right now is that time I told you to please kindly NOT call my brother, your own son, an asshole. That night SUCKED because apparently I’m simply not allowed to talk back, or maybe even raise my voice at you the way you do all the time. I’m sick of your hypocrisy, I’m sick of you hurting my brother, I’m sick of you hurting me, and I need you to put your ass in therapy before you cause permanent damage and end up ruining our relationship into my adulthood. I’m so fed up with your bullshit. FIX IT.

For this particular instance, I would like to remind you that I’ve been legally able to drive for less than half a year. I’ve been able to take the top off my car only two times now, and the first time I was somewhat able to put it back on in a timely and responsible manner. I’ve never had to look at the weather for anything car related, I’m a brand spanking new jeep owner, and I am a 16 year old with a half-formed brain and attention issues. You, sir, are an asshole for screaming at me, not even ALLOWING me to apologize, and not letting me have a CALM, SIMPLE DISCUSSION with you about the factors that went into my slipup.

You have no idea how cathartic it would feel for me to be able to yell all these thoughts at you, to get them out of my head and MAYBE through your thick skull. You are the reason I feel like I’m not heard, and you’re the reason I’m probably going to fall into that stereotypical “my parents don’t understand me” teen angst bullshit, because I finally DO understand where that stereotype comes from. It's from assholes like you who refuse to go to therapy and accept that they’re a little bit fucked up and that their communication skills are shit. GOD I wish you would just LISTEN and I wish you could take what you dish out. Maybe not even take it, just simply ALLOW it. It hurts so fucking bad that I have to sit here and type an honest-to-god google docs because I feel like I can’t even talk to you like a normal person. If the communication I wish I could have with you was a spectrum, yelling at you and giving you a taste of your own fucked-up medicine would be on the end that’s probably physically impossible because I value our relationship. Based on your actions, you clearly don’t, but I do, so I swallow my damn tongue. Look how easy! Take notes! The end of the spectrum that I’m on right now is the one where I’m typing a very angry letter in my documents as I’m sitting at my desk and sobbing. It’s not even one that’s going to be sent. A sent letter would be far further down the spectrum. An edited version of this, one that communicates in an assertive and healthy manner, might be a bit closer to here on the spectrum, but I still wouldn’t send that because you’d want to try and argue with me about it and end up screaming your head off. You have such an infuriating issue with interruption and thinking you know what’s best 100% of the time, so you have to be LOUDER BECAUSE YOU’RE OBVIOUSLY CORRECT. I may have had only 16 years on this planet, but I am lightyears ahead of you in emotional intelligence. You should be embarrassed, honestly. For all that time I see you shitting away at your desk, “working”, when legitimately everyone in the house knows you’re on youtube or some stupid forum, you’d think you would have had a little sliver of time to look up how to actually tell someone they’re wrong instead of just being loud and hurtful. 

We are so sick of your bullshit. Man the fuck up and go to therapy. This is your first and only warning, as you’re so fond of administering those.

Love,

me

(you know, your daughter)

[im-abanana]

@geekgirles  (FoRgIvE mE!)

Oof, my hand slipped again, and faster this time. But I’m having too much fun with your AU, really. I HAD to write something (1155 words, y’know, I like to keep it simple ahah) about Creek’s little outburst.

I know I’m a pain friend, but pls bear with meeeh <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No?” despite the tinge of displeasure that was coating his tongue, Creek’s face was uncharacteristically emotionless as he asked for clarity. “Why won’t you marry me, Poppy?” 

The pink-haired girl in question chewed on her lower lip, averting her eyes from the still kneeling man and the ring he was offering her. Not so long ago, that sparkling jewel and the future it symbolized would’ve been a dream come true, but not anymore. “No, Creek. I will not marry you. I’m really sorry,” Poppy declared, surprised by her own determination. “but we’re not meant to be.”

The ring box closed with a sharp, reverberating snap as Creek slowly got back on his feet. Towering over Poppy thanks to his greater height, his purple irises bore into her skin and flesh, making her feel horribly exposed. 

“But of course we’re not. Now there’s someone else in your heart,” Creek’s voice, always so gentle and silky and kind, had become unrecognizable in a matter of seconds. Rather than being the delicate, velvety caress Poppy was familiar with, it was now full of menace and malice. ‘Like a razor sharp blade brushing against the throat,’ was the first thing that came to her mind.

“I don’t understand. W-what do you mean, someone else?” Poppy knew that getting defensive was the worst thing to do, or at least her instinct told her so, but she just couldn’t do otherwise. Creek wasn’t simply able to make her feel exposed, apparently— he could read her like an open book. 

It was frightening.

His mocking laughter echoed in every corner of the kitchen, bouncing from wall to wall. “Oh, Poppy. You sweet, innocent, clueless girl. You think you have so many friends, so many contacts… and you probably do. But unfortunately for you, I’ve got some too,” without leaving time for her to elaborate, Creek pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, sneering in triumph as her mouth fell open. “So, when exactly were you planning on telling me that the precious, professional and oh-so-competent tutor of yours is your kid’s biological father?”

The whole world ripped apart and came tumbling down on Poppy’s head at the same time, leaving her speechless. They’ve been found out— worst of all, they’ve been found out by Creek. “How did you get those documents!?” she demanded, ignoring the blood pumping and ringing and boiling furiously in her ears.

A straightforward, unconcerned shrug was his response. “It’s not important. What truly matters is that everybody will know the truth about you,” the greenish-haired boy mused, waving the sheet of paper like a trophy as he bend slightly over, getting face to face with her. “Because you’re nothing more than a stupid, spoiled girl who got knocked up by some pathetic grump and got stuck with the consequences. Speaking of which,” Creek rejoiced in the child’s small squeal of terror as he captured his confused, terrified gaze. “there you are. Hiding behind the kitchen table, are you? Come here, you little brat.”

The unexpected strength with which Poppy shoved Creek back sent him crashing against the sink. “Don’t you dare say my son is a consequence, Creek! Leave him out of this, your quarrel is with me, and only me!” she snarled with fury, acting as a human shield to protect her son, roaring fire dancing and cursing through her veins. She was definitely not letting him near her child. “Get out of my house, before I make you. We’re finished.”

Despite the throbbing pain in his side and the wince it caused, Creek’s amused smirk reappeared faster than predicted. Too fast. “No, my dearest. I don’t think we are,” he whispered smoothly, at this point far too collected for Poppy’s taste; it’s not that she was afraid of him, or for herself. She feared for her child, who was shaking like a leaf just a few meters from her. It was actually Creek’s lack of any type of negative emotion— rage, resentment, fury —the thing that deeply disturbed her. Now more than ever, he reminded her of a sociopath. “On the contrary, we’ve barely begun.”

The slam of the front door, the sound of running feet, a third, deeper voice yelling “No, you’re not!” and then the brutal, unrelenting force ramming into Creek’s flank. This time, the yoga instructor was literally thrown to the hard kitchen floor.

Branch was standing there, wheezing and red-faced from exertion— but despite the fatigue, anyone could detect the protectiveness he was radiating with. The black-haired tutor regarded his child with a tender, reassuring smile. “You did the right thing by calling me, kid. Good job,” then, he turned to Creek with an aggressive growl. “Poppy’s been crystal clear, get out of this house, immediately!”

As massive as Creek’s ego might’ve been, the yoga instructor wasn’t a fool and had learned to analyze people, situations and opponents; for that reason, he decided to trust his brain when it suggested that messing with 190 pounds of pure, thick muscle probably wasn’t the brightest of ideas. Sometimes, you just have to accept defeat and wait for your chance. After all, he had the documents— he could still ruin Poppy’s life.

“Alright. Alright, mate. I’ll leave, but you know what?” Creek finally conceded, slowly getting up and smoothening his own clothes, gathering all the dignity he had left. Just before he headed towards the entrance door, stumbling with a visible and painful limp, he spat: “Perhaps I was wrong all along. You two really deserve each other.”

The young tutor didn’t even bother wasting his breath, that snake’s sentence did not deserve an answer anyway, but Branch made sure Creek had truly left the apartment before checking on Poppy and the child. “Are you both ok? Did he hurt you? Do you need me to call the cops or your father, Pop—” before he could finish his question, Branch found himself wrapped in a tight hug, his son squeezing his legs and Poppy grasping his chest. 

“You came for us,” Poppy croaked, her voice finally cracking and breaking like a rotten stump in a storm, wearily leaning her forehead against his shoulder. All her energy, her previous anger and determination had been drained so suddenly, she needed the physical support of his firm body.

“It’s ok, it’s ok now. Of course I came,” Branch let out a deep sigh of relief, holding the two of them as close as he could. Together like family, his family, in his arms— the blood of his blood on one side, and the love of his life on the other. “I’m here, and if you want me to stay, I won’t go anywhere. I promise.”

Is that what it felt like, the sense of belonging? The primordial instinct of protection? The uncontrollable love overflowing from his heart? ‘If it is, it feels nice,’ Branch decided. 

Very nice, actually.

[milasartblog]

Adoption (part 2)

For couple of minutes Cornelia's parents were discussing the suggestion with each other, while I was standing, listening, being patient. When they finally decided to speak, they looked at me.

Cornelia's mother: We have thought about it, and before telling our decision, may we ask something?

Madam Death: You're welcome to ask anything.

Cornelia's father: Will we still be able to guard our daughter or watch over her?

Madam Death: No creature in any realm has a right to forbid parents to watch over their child. Plus, as a creature with little parent experience, I will always need your guidance.

Cornelia's mother: I'm sorry if it sounds rude, but it's strange to see a divine creature asking guidance from humans.

Madam Death: It's not that strange as you might think. Every creature has their own views on parenting children, even divine creatures like me.

Cornelia's mother: Oh, really? That's new.

Cornelia's father: Not really, but it's surprising for sure. Anyways, can we at least see our daughter and speak to her? Please?

Madam Death: Right now?

They nodded together.

Cornelia's mother: Just....we are not sure if we're able to talk to her ever again. At least....say that we're with her.

They looked at me with begging look. Little do they know they could still visit her in dreams every time. But I can't say no to it. I know how it is important for them.

Madam Death: I will help you to accomplish such request, but it will be as a lucid dream. Cornelia and you will still be able to interract like it would be in reality, but it will still be a dream. That's all I can do.

They knew it without me, but still their faces smiled in honest happiness.

Cornelia's father: Thank you....thank you so much.

I didn't say anything and offered them my hands. As we held each other's hands, I used my powers to teleport us to dream realm, to Cornelia's dream. It was dark around, empty, only Cornelia was sitting. She was looking around, looking for something or someone. I felt she was scared. Parents started to call her.

Cornelia's parents: Cornelia, sweetie!

She heard them. She turned around towards the sound and noticed them, standing next to me. With tears in her eyes Cornelia ran towards her parents, hugging them, not believing her eyes. Parents couldn't believe either. I was just standing, watching. It was their moment.

Cornelia's mother: We're so happy to see you again, dear.

Cornelia's father: We missed you so much.

Cornelia nodded, saying she missed them too. I could feel her fear, deep inside she knew it was a dream, but how much she was afraid to ruin it. I could hear them talking to each other.

Cornelia's father: I'm so sorry, dear. I wish I could prevent what happened that day. It was not supposed to be like this.

Blame was covering him, but Cornelia denied it, even with her silent voice. And honestly, I'm with her.

Cornelia's mother: Still mute as I remember. My poor girl.

She hugged Cornelia tightly and carefully at the same time. I kept standing and watching, but only little time left till the morning light vanishes the dream. Cornelia wanted to say so many things to her parents, so many feelings to let out.

Cornelia's mother: My dear, my sunshine, I know how much you want to talk with us. We will still have time again. But right now, we need to tell you something.

Cornelia's father: Madam Death told us about your ability. As much as we wished it didn't happen to you, we can't change it. Because of it, Madam Death suggested her being your guardian.

Cornelia surprised. I could feel her confusion, while parents continue to explain.

Cornelia's father: Death told us how you wanted to help her and to follow her, despite any danger. If not all of this, we would probably not come to this decision.

Cornelia's mother: We have been watching over you for some time, tried to guard you and protect you from above. But our strength is fading away with every time, and....there is a chance that one day we won't be able to protect you....

Tears appeared in her eyes as Cornelia hugged her mother, crying too, telling her that it's okay, that she can stand up for herself. Father hugged them too. I couldn't help, but feel sadness and happiness mixed together. It even seemed that....a crystally clear tear came from my dead eyes. It's been eons since my eyes cried. I made a small step, making them look at me.

Madam Death: There was never any case where parents weren't able to protect their child, even in afterlife. Believe in yourself, like Cornelia did. Maybe not at once. But with time.

Cornelia nodded in agreement. Parents were amazed by my words, even tho I didn't say anything unnatural.

Madam Death: Sure, physical caretaker is supposed to be in human realm, it's neccessary. But it doesn't mean that caretaker will replace parents' love and care. Even I will not replace it, only give my own care and support.

Cornelia was confused for a moment, but quickly realised what I was talking about. She is a smart girl. She was stunned for a moment, not believing what is happening. Cornelia's father patted her shoulder.

Cornelia's father: I know that you're astonished, dear, but that's what Madam Death suggested.

Cornelia's mother: Since none of the family wanted to adopt you, she suggested us that she will take care of you. I wish we could wait a bit longer, but it's been two years that nobody took care of you. Plus your ability....

Cornelia's father: And yet, Madam Death didn't act with rush and called us to help with such decision. And so we're here, to make such decision. Only with your decision things will go. Of course it doesn't mean that we will stop our duty.

Cornelia took a moment to think. She tried to rethink every information. I could feel her hesitation and happiness, doubts and determiantion mixed together as one. I knew how she wanted to follow me, to help me after what she saw, but Cornelia wasn't expecting it to be that soon. Such decisions are hard to make, but I kept waiting. Waiting until finally she gave her sign. And her sign was.....an agreement. An agreement of me taking care of her. Parents were amazed by such decision of hers, even me. However she made it under one condition: her parents are allowed to visit her in dreams as much as they need. Parents were surprised by such condition, and yet they didn't show any disagreement. Same for me. They all trusted me, and such trust is a big responsibility, which I will take.

Madam Death: Well, since you made an agreement, I think it's time for us to go.

Cornelia was surprised. That soon, she thought. And then they noticed a light that tried to get into Cornelia's dream, a sunlight.

Cornelia's mother: How time flies fast, even in dreams.

Cornelia's father: Yeah....Shall we wake up? Together.

Cornelia didn't want to do it so soon, and yet the time was running out. I patted her shoulder, reasurring her that she will see them again. Cornelia hesitated, but then nodded and held parents' hands. With a smile they went to the light. And me...I was staying behind, watching them walking together, like they were still alive. A family...whose bond is stronger than anyone else. And it was time....to wake up.....

It was so noisy in orphanage. Kids were running towards the guest hall. I could hear their happy noises while walking, their excitement, thinking that finally they could leave the walls of the orphanage. Even Cornelia joined them. And finally when they all got into the hall, the caretaker said to me.

Caretaker: Alright, here are all the children. Whom did you want to adopt, lady?

I could see children's face excited, while Cornelia was confused at first. But as soon as she stood in front of me....her eyes sparkled. She recognized me. I stood and looked at her with smile. The caretaker noticed it with surprise.

Caretaker: You want to adopt this girl? Are you sure you-?

But sentence was broken by sudden hug of Cornelia. Kids surprised too, while me....I just smiled and hugged her back.

Madam Death (human form): Hello, dear.

I could feel her tears of happiness running on her cheeks. Kids of course sighed and walked back to their rooms, while caretaker walked to me.

Caretaker: So it's your final decision, ma'am? Shall we sign documents?

I looked at caretaker with smile while Cornelia kept hugging me. I nodded slightly and pronounced my final answer.

Yes.

-----------------

And that's the second part of the story^^ It became quite a long part, so sorry about it X') Got carried away, as usual X) Anyways, hope you will enjoy it^^

Madam Death and Cornelia belong to @wildstarfan and @milasartblog (both me)

Okaria et Feria belongs to @wildstarfan and @captainthane

[ask-de-writer]

Dr. Mordenheim’s Travels, Book 1: De Writer’s Equestria, Ch. 8

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Dr. Mordenheim’s Travels, Book 1: De Writer’s Equestria, Ch. 8

by

@mordenheim

2319 words

© 2020 by @mordenheim

used by permission of the author

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Dr. Mordenheim’s Travels, Book 1:   De Writer’s Equestria, Ch. 8

Dr. Victor Mordenheim has traveled to many different realities in his many centuries of existence.  This series, which I shall add to from time to time, will explore some of them, beginning with the world of  @ask-de-writer. Note: This tale takes place before the Hearthswarming story.  It is actually the night after the Nightmare Night Celebration. =============================================================

The huge zebra sat at the table, waiting for the entrance of the two sisters.   Luna had essentially twisted his foreleg until he finally agreed to meet with her sister, Celestia.   Given that in his own world, Celestia was responsible for his curse and much of the suffering he experienced in his long, long life it had taken a LOT of twisting.

He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and wished silently that he had brought his pipe.   He imagined that it was likely bad manners to smoke inside of the royal palace, but his nerves were shot.   He gazed around the room, which was smoothly tiled and decorated mostly in white and gold with deep midnight blue and black highlights.   The black of a few of the tiles was so deep that he felt he might fall into one if he stared at it for too long.

He glanced back over his shoulders to the four guards posted by the huge double doors.   Three of them stood at attention, their heads scanned the room as proper, well trained guards would.   The fourth had his eyes locked on the “good” doctor, sneering with disdain at what he obviously considered a “lesser” creature.   Victor turned away and rolled his eyes, sighing softly.   There really was no escaping ignorance.

After a few moments there came a knock at the door.   A new guard leaned in and whispered something to one of the others before the two nodded to one another and she backed out and closed the door.

“Night court is running late, I am afraid.   Princess Luna will be unable to attend tea with her sister this evening.   However, Princess Celestia shall be appearing in a few moments.

The zebra swallowed hard and felt his heart sink into his gut.   This was not at all what he had agreed to. Meeting the two of them together was bad enough, at least he would have Princess Luna to lean on a bit and guide him through the ordeal, but this?   This was almost too much to bear.

Victor stared wordlessly into the cup of milky tea swirling before him.   His hooves tapped nervously on the tabletop as he waited.   He turned his head to the left, casting furtive glances towards the door.   The door where a mare who was the spitting image of the one who ruined his life would soon enter.   He cast his eyes over to the side of the room and briefly considered hurling himself through the glass to escape.   It might be poor form, but he wouldn’t have to face his fear alone.

He knew in his head that she was not the same mare who had been responsible for his centuries of torment, but he was not so sure of how his heart would react to seeing her face to face.   He took a deep, cleansing breath through his nose and slowly exhaled through his mouth as he tried to get his nerves under control.

The door opened and he felt his heart freeze like ice.   He turned to see the Princess of the Sun enter the room, alone.   She was slightly taller than he, her rainbow mane seeming to blow in an eternal solar wind even in the still air of the room.   He felt a sudden urge to flee settle into him until he met her gaze.

Her eyes met his and studied him with curiosity.  Where the Celestia he knew would only look upon him with coldness and disdain, there was none of that here.   Her eyes held genuine concern. Her violet gaze seemed warm and inviting, like being bathed in the gentle light of the sun after a cold storm.   He started to speak, then stopped.   Unused to the process he bowed low as he did for her sister, if a bit stiffly.

The princess smiled brightly, “My sister told me that you were quite nervous about our meeting, yet it seems something has changed that already.   What was it?”

He cast his gaze downwards, ashamed of how frightened he had been.  “One look into your eyes and I could see that you were not the tyrant ruler of my old home, despite many physical similarities.   Your eyes speak of inviting kindness, while hers spoke of solitude and hatred.”

Celestia, let out a musical laugh.  She moved about a few of the massive array of cakes set before her to make eye contact easier.   No doubt many of these were part of her sister’s bribe.  “I am glad to see you are so observant.   The ability to see more than one’s appearance is a very important trait to have.”

The zebra finally took a small sip of his tea. He enjoyed the milky richness and the slight sweetness on his tongue.   He thought about her words and tilted his head a bit. “And what do you see beneath my appearance?”

The tall mare looked thoughtful for a moment.   Her first few words were muffled, spoken as they were around a mouthful of cake.  “Power…   Great power and intelligence, and a kindness and wish to help others.”   Her wistful look turned to one of sorrow, “Beneath that, however, is pain..   More pain than anyone should have to endure.   There’s a darkness down there, and that makes you a dangerous stallion.”

Victor sat his cup down with a shaking hoof.   The porcelain made a soft clattering noise against the saucer.   How much did she know, he wondered.   Steeling himself, he forced his eyes to meet hers and was stunned to see not judgment, but compassion in her gaze.  “I have done many things I am not proud of over the centuries.   Things I wish I could go back and change, but I can’t.  All of this power and all of the time in the universe…” “Yet you can’t change the past…” Celestia finished for him.

He nodded mutely and stared down into his tea for a moment.

The princess reached across the table and lightly touched his shoulder with a hoof.   The zebra was so tense it was like touching a moss-covered stone.  “I don’t know what you’ve done in the past, but that was another place, another world entirely.   Here, I want you to know that you can start over.   A clean slate, as it were.”

She stared into the depths of her own tea for a moment.  “I know what happened at the celebration last night.”

Victor had gripped the edge of the table with his hooves so tightly that the wood sounded like it was beginning to splinter.   He glanced at the guards, his voice a hoarse whisper.  “They were inciting violence around children, I couldn’t just…”

She smiled softly, “I know…   I know everything that happened, Victor.   Luna knew what had happened and we do not keep secrets from one another.”

The zebra was confused by the smile, but relaxed a little.   She hadn’t shouted for the guards so all may still be well.

“My apologies.   A transgression like that where I come from could result in several years in the dungeon, if not becoming a permanent addition to the royal statue garden.” He rubbed a bit at his eye patch and chuckled nervously, but could see genuine concern in Celestia’s eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that.   To think that a punishment for a crime would be levied without looking into all circumstances involved, or worse that the circumstances did not matter is horrible.   To think that it comes from a version of myself, even more so.”   The tall alicorn helped herself to another piece of cake from the rapidly dwindling pile.   As she took a bite, she mulled over a few thoughts.

“It doesn’t sound like you are in any particular hurry to go back there,” she said softly, taking a sip of tea.

“Not at all.   There is nothing left for me there anymore.   Everything was taken from me.”   He picked up the mug of tea in his hooves and sipped at it sparingly.   It had gone cold while they were waiting, but that was fine as far as he was concerned.

Victor was once more bathed in that comforting warmth as Celestia smiled at him.  “You may, of course, stay here for as long as you wish.   You are after all a citizen of Equestria, if not this particular version of it.”   She giggled a bit, “Luna has also told me that you were so anxious to open your clinic that you forgot to get the proper licenses even after she told you directly.”

Victor blushed, a deep crimson showing through his pale fur.  “Y..yes, well…”   He stammered for a moment before nodding, “Very true.   If Princess Luna had not been visiting that day I could have ended up in a rather large spot of trouble.”

“Ah!   Before I forget!   Luna was extremely impressed with the demonstration of your prostheses.   She even said that it has pushed her to try improving on her own design. Perhaps the two of you should compare notes with one another and come up with a single design using your combined knowledge?”

Victor hummed and rubbed his chin, “I think that is an ingenious idea!   If you think she would be willing, of course…”

Celestia chuckled to herself, “I think she would be delighted.   After all, who knows what breakthroughs the two of you may devise?”

Victor slowly took another long, cleansing breath and allowed himself to relax at last.  “Lord and Lady, I had been so nervous about this day.   Thankfully, I see that it was for no good reason.”

The tall alicorn tilted her head at that statement, “Lord and Lady?   I must admit that’s an expletive I have not heard before.”

“Ah..”   Victor blushed a bit and thought he had gotten a bit too comfortable.  “It is in reference to the parents of Princess Luna and Celestia from my own dimension. Lord Kraken and Lady Faust.”

The princess nodded.   She took a very large bite of cake and chewed thoughtfully as she mulled it over, “Yes, I suppose that would make sense.   Though it is interesting to hear that a version of myself and my sister came from an entirely different set of circumstances.”

The zebra lifted a fork in his hoof and took a small piece of the sugary sweet cake onto it, “Well, the circumstances, unfortunately, created a very different version of you both.”

Celestia took one look and could easily read the hurt in the doctor’s voice.   She cleared her throat a bit and smiled once more at him, “Perhaps that is something we can discuss another time.   This being our first meeting perhaps we should stick to more pleasant conversation.”

He placed the sugary treat into his mouth and let it melt upon his tongue.   There was so much sweetness to it it made his teeth tingle, but it was still very flavorful.   It wasn’t sweet just for sweetness sake, but crafted with love and care by someone who knew precisely what they were doing.  “Mmm.. sorry..”   He took a sip of his tea to clear some of the stickiness from his maw, “Did you have something particular in mind?”

“Well, the running of the leaves is in a few weeks.   We’ve changed the route a bit so it runs past your clinic and will clear some of the mess out in that area.   I was wondering if you were going to participate in the running itself?”

His ears perked up at the sound of that.   How long had it been since he’d gone for a run and just really let himself loose?   He could actually feel his true cutie mark trying to push its way pas the wolf-head curse mark on his flank for a moment.  “I..   would like that very much, but I don’t know if I should…”

The princess blinked in surprise, sitting upright, “I don’t understand.   The running is open to any creature who wishes to join in.   What could be the problem?”

Victor chuckled a little, “Simply put, my skill as a scientist is purely due to study, hard work, and dedication.   It has nothing to do with my talent.”   He smiles, actually puffing up with pride a little, “While I may be a bit rusty, my true talent is running.   I just don’t know if it would be fair to the others if I were to participate.”

She laughed a little, a high, cheerful piccolo like sound.  “Oh, now I wish to see you run even more.   If it is something you are skilled at and enjoy enough to brag about it in front of me, you must be impressive indeed!”

He blinked as he realized that he had just stepped in a mess with this turn of conversation.   He sighed softly and shook his head, “Alright then, I will participate, but I just hope the other ponies won’t be upset if I show them up too badly.”   He finished his small slice of cake and drained the last of his tea before smiling at her.   However, the hour is late, and I still have a bit of paperwork to do before bed.” “Of course, of course.   I should be getting to bed myself.   It is a shame that Luna could not join us, but I did exercise enough restraint to save her a slice of cake.” Victor turned and bowed to the Princess, his head low to the carpet, “By your leave, your highness.”

She smiled and nodded, “Of course.   I look forward to seeing you again soon, Doctor Mordenheim.  I also look forward to what breakthroughs you and my sister may come up with.”

The zebra stood and turned to trot out of the room. He took great delight in the look of impotent rage on the face of one particular guard as he passed by.

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[pumpkinmutual]

Haunted [Yeosang]

The house is haunted.

Or at least, that’s what your friends have told you between bouts of laughter and dramatically raised eyebrows as you were challenged to spend an entire night in the confines of said house. Standing in front of it now, you eye the overgrown lawn and the weeds that have taken over, the cracked sidewalk and rotted wooden planks of the wrap-around porch and the wide, imposing frame of the house it belongs to before deciding that it very much looks like what a haunted house is supposed to look like.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), you don’t believe in ghosts.

You’re not entirely sure why you’d taken them up on the bet, because you have nothing to prove to them – whether they think you’re a coward or not has no merit to you, considering they’d been hesitant to give you an answer when you’d asked if one of them would come along.

“That ruins the point of it,” one of them had said, sharing a silent, nervous look with the others and you’d simply rolled your eyes and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing into an argument. A few days later and one semi-questionable map later brought you to now, chafing your upper arm against the sudden burst of wind that tosses your hair away from your face.

“Well,” you murmur to yourself as you adjust your grip on your backpack, “here goes nothing.”

  In contrast to the rotting, time-beaten outside, the inside of the house is nice. Antique furniture is covered in plastic that has at least a year’s worth of dust on it, heavy drapes thrown across several mirrors, the glass uncracked or smudged.

Outside of the obvious passage of time, this could be someone’s current home. You’re almost surprised by the absence of life, expecting hear someone down the hall or see a television going – but all is still, almost stiflingly silent.

No one has been here in years.

A small spider picks its way across its elegant web in the corner of the doorway you step through, observing the kitchen for a moment before you shift your backpack and swing it around to unzip it, rummaging for a moment before you pull out your camera. It’s an older model, more than a little battered – but it’s perfect for taking photos of things like this.

The only sound in the next few moments is your own soft breathing and the whir of the camera’s shutter, muted flash throwing your shadow in sharp contrast across the floor for brief seconds with every photo. You document everything, wanting to have physical proof that you’d done your end of the deal, lest your friends argue that you hadn’t. (Despite everything, you hate the idea of being called a liar.)

It’s as you’re finishing up with photographing the refrigerator (thankfully empty, just dusty like everything else) that the sound of footsteps gets your attention and you lower the camera cautiously. “Hello?” you call warily, wondering if someone had noticed your entry and called the police, or if ---

That’s stupid, you immediately chastise yourself, ghosts don’t exist.

Instead of a response, all you get is the sound of more footsteps. But they aren’t coming from the living room or the hallway – they’re coming from above.

You debate for a silent moment, fingers tight around your camera as you suck in a breath and then leave the kitchen, making a beeline for the grand staircase that curls upwards, little puffs of dust stirred with every step that you take.  

“If there is someone up here,” you tell yourself in a low voice as you reach the landing, “this will be the easiest murder they’ve ever committed.”

There’s a snort from behind you that makes you jolt and you turn, camera raised like some sort of shield in front of you as your eyes lock with the dark brown of the boy who’s somehow managed to appear behind you. “Are you going to hit me with that?”

You blink, and he tilts his head towards the camera. Lowering it slowly, you eye the boy suspiciously. “Where did you come from? Who are you?”

“I should be the one asking questions,” he counters, “considering I live here and what you’re doing is technically breaking and entering.”

“You live here?” He nods. You squint. “It’s very dusty for someone to be living here. And there’s no food anywhere.”

“Maybe living isn’t the right word,” he admits after a moment, small smile tugging at his lips. “My family owns this place, and I drop by every now and then to make sure nobody’s set it on fire or done any damage to it.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” you say, and hold up your camera again. “I’m just taking pictures.”

“I believe you,” he says, and that tiny smile grows a little wider, his eyes a little warmer. He’s oddly pale, you note, a little bit like a washed-out photo, edges soft and muted. “I can show you around, if you’d like.”

“That would be wonderful,” you say. “Less chance of me getting lost.”

“Or breaking things.”

“I wouldn’t—” He stares at you and you sigh, wondering why you’ve decided to trust a boy that you’ve known for less than five minutes as you gesture. “Lead the way, mysterious boy.”

“My name is Yeosang,” he says, “Kang Yeosang. And you are?”

Perhaps it’s a nagging sensation of fear or something else entirely, but the impulse to come up with a false name is on the tip of your tongue, though you swallow it back and (perhaps stupidly) give him your name and his head tilts.

“Pretty,” he muses, “it suits you.” He brushes past you, and you stare at his retreating back for a moment.

“Thanks, I think?” You hurry after him, keeping enough distance between the two of you that you won’t be immediately caught if he decides that you’ve overstayed your welcome, but not so much that it makes it awkward. “This house is huge.”

“It is pretty big.” Yeosang leads you down the hall, past numerous closed doors that he doesn’t spare a second glance at, oblivious to your own curiosity. “I have no idea why my parents wanted something this big, there are too many rooms.”

“Maybe they expected a lot of guests at one time?”

Yeosang stops. “Maybe,” he says softly, and you wonder if you’ve said something wrong before he shakes himself out of whatever little daze he’s fallen into and continues moving forward.

“Do you know much about the history of this house? I mean how long it was owned by your family? Or the style it’s modeled in, or—”

“Why exactly did you say you were here?”

“A bet.”

Yeosang stops, turning to look at you. You wonder if he’s going to kick you out of his family’s home now, but all he does is shrug and make a soft ‘huh’ sound and turn back around. You stare at his back, shaking your head. Weird kid.

Then again, as if you have much room to talk.

“There really isn’t much here to show, everything of real value got packed up and moved a long time ago.” Yeosang ruffles his hair and sighs. “Sorry if you were looking for something interesting.”

“I don’t know,” you answer as you fiddle with your camera and then bring it up, trying to focus on Yeosang without him noticing. “I think running into a boy who just happens to own this house is pretty interesting.”

If Yeosang notices his own brief silhouette against the wall, he says nothing.

  “And that concludes our tour,” Yeosang says as you reach the bottom of the grand staircase once more, turning towards you. “I hope you got the pictures you wanted.”

“I did,” you say, “thank-you for not calling the police. Or murdering me.”

“The police probably wouldn’t come out here anyway,” he answers, “and I’m not one for murder.”

“That’s reassuring,” you say with a small laugh and you move towards the front door, glancing back at Yeosang. “Are you coming?”

Something crosses his face, a brief flash of sadness and something else before he shakes his head. “No, you go ahead.”

“Suit yourself,” you say and then turn around once more, though the gleam of something on the wall catches your attention. It’s a photograph, one that you hadn’t noticed on your way in and you take a step closer, tugging at your shirt sleeve to wipe away the fine layer of dust on the surface.

And then you stare.

The occupant of the picture is a boy, faint smile aimed at the camera, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He’s pale, edges softened and blurred with the passage of time on the photograph – and you whirl around, eyes wide as you focus on Yeosang.

“This is you,” you say, and more than a little fear makes your blood run cold as you tense. “Are you—”

“A ghost?” He asks, and there’s no hint of laughter, no spark of a joke on his face – he’s completely serious, regarding you silently as you wait for him to continue. “Yes, I suppose that’s what you could call me, but I don’t haunt people. I just...stay here.”

“Because you want to? Or because you have to?”

Yeosang’s expression is definitely sad now. “I have to,” he says softly. “I’ve tried leaving before, but I end up back here in the end.”

“Oh,” you play with the strap of your camera, “that’s, um…I’m sorry.”

He laughs quietly. “For what? You have nothing to be sorry for.” He steps closer, reaching for your hands wrapped around your camera. His fingertips brush your skin, though all you feel is the sensation of ice rather than true touch. “I know you took a picture of me. I don’t know if it’ll develop properly, but if it does…it’s nice to think someone knows I’m here.”

“I won’t forget,” you say, words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them. “Maybe I can come back and, um…visit?”

Yeosang stares at you for a moment before he smiles – not the tiny polite smile, not even a fake one – it’s genuine, his eyes gleaming in a way that makes you wonder if he’s truly a ghost. “I’d like that.”

“Then it’s a deal,” you tell him and he nods, watching as you step back towards the door. He watches you open the door, waiting until it’s shut before he glances at his own photo and sighs, shaking his head with that same smile before he vanishes.

Outside, the chilly air makes you shiver as you walk down the cracked pathway, coming to a halt and glancing back at the house. You know your friends will never believe you when you tell them you found a real ghost – after all, you hadn’t run screaming – and your attention shifts to your camera, hoping that the photo of Yeosang will develop.

And if it does, it’s a secret you’re willing to keep to yourself.

[lilacmoon83]

A Darker Curse

Summary: Mr. Gold serves Kathryn with David’s divorce papers, August thinks about his ill feelings toward Geppetto, and Regina makes a very bold move in her quest to take Cora down and save her family.

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 7: Just Desserts

Mr. Gold entered the bank that afternoon with a pleased expression on his face. Though a pleased look on his face to everyone else usually looked to them like he was ready to eat someone alive. His expression today was similar as it was when he collected rent from the various residents in town and it was no secret that he enjoyed being feared. If one didn't know Mr. Gold's reputation, they might question why the people fear this man that walked with a limp and used a cane to get around. But the fear he invoked was not a physical fear, no it was far worse. Mr. Gold seemingly had endless financial resources and could hire any muscle he needed. He was a man that could make anything happen and if you wanted something, you only needed to go to him. Of course, that required making a deal with him and that usually came at some kind of great personal cost.

But once in a while, in his considerable years, he had the opportunity to make a deal where what he got out of it would be nothing more than smug satisfaction.

David Nolan had come into his shop and made a deal with him. The man had no money, not a shred of self confidence left, and was as desperate as he had seen anyone in a long time. Almost as desperate as his aging wife that he did not remember. If he wanted to, he could have made them both owe him a great deal and it was tempting. He would be lying if he said he wasn't curious as to how far this Snow White would go to get her husband back. This was a woman that had pined and suffered without the man she loved for twenty years, only to find out that her one comfort that he was at least safe was false.

And then there was David. Some would say he was damaged beyond repair; a shadow of his former self. But he knew better. He had been a victim of abuse and knew that despite that, a person could come back from that. He himself had turned to the darkness to do so. But David was stronger than he was. He would be repressed if he did not admit that they were once not so different. Both born into poverty, though David at least had the grace of a loving mother, it had left them both with a darker impression of the world around them. But unlike him, David had not turned to darkness, though he knew that meeting Snow and being thrust into the role of a Prince had helped that. He was definitely a man that believed in true love; he had banked on this particular true love, after all. But he had never put much belief in its staying power. Love was fleeting, but somehow this love had endured more hardship than any love should be required to. He knew many would think that there was no way to even repair this relationship. Even if David remembered, surely too much had happened to them for them to actually find their way back to each other. But Mr. Gold not only knew this pair would, he was also banking on it again. So that's why, as he delivered these papers, he was already collecting in the form of satisfaction. And it would be a satisfaction that would keep on giving. The look on Kathryn Nolan's face would be a start, but the real satisfaction would come when Cora realized that her perfect curse was going to crumble and there was nary a thing she could do about it. Sure, he knew she'd employ dastardly tactics and stop at nothing to keep Snow and David apart. But it wouldn't work. She had screwed up there and he couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she realized it.

She could have cursed David into a happy marriage and possibly managed to succeed in keeping them apart for a time in that way. But all she had done was created an abused, desperate man that was finally ready to fight, because he had the right person in his corner now. And it was about to blow up in her face. He felt mild sympathy for Kathryn Nolan though. The person that Cora had cursed her to be was going to have lasting psychological effects on her as well when she remembered. Princess Abigail would be horrified by all that she had done to David over the years and the fall out from Cora's curse was going to be something akin to ruin. He couldn't wait. When the curse broke, he would find Bae and if the town wanted to burn Cora at the stake, he'd gladly provide the fireball to light her up at no charge.

"Mr. Gold...can I help you with something today?" Kathryn Nolan questioned, as she came out of her corner office, upon spotting him come into the bank.

"No...I'm just here to deliver this to you," he said, as he handed her the folded document. He watched gleefully, as she unfolded the parchment and her face went red with anger.

"Is this a joke?" she spat.

"Oh, I assure you it is quite valid and quite real," he replied pleasantly.

"You've been served, Mrs. Nolan," he added, as she looked up at him sharply.

"David has no money. Do you really expect me to believe that he hired you as his attorney?" she growled.

"Believe what you want, Mrs. Nolan, for David is my client. Let's just say I'm doing this one pro-bono and with a great amount of satisfaction, might I add," he replied.

"I'll fight this...if David thinks I'm letting him take half of everything, then he really is an idiot," she spat. He smirked.

"You can try to fight it, but David isn't asking for anything except to not be married to you any longer. You can have the house and everything else. He just wants to be divorced from you as fast as possible and the law will grant him what he wants, despite any protest on your part," Gold replied.

"Oh, but I would caution you in fighting this too hard...unless you'd like all those skeletons in your closet to be aired to the entire town, Mrs. Nolan, for if you choose to play dirty...then so will I," he warned threateningly and she shrank back a bit and watched him go in disbelief. Everyone around her stared at her, for Mr. Gold had made it a point to make sure he served her the papers in the most embarrassing and public place he could pick. Furiously, she grabbed her coat and stormed out of the bank.

~*~

August reluctantly arrived at Marco's shop to pick up the Bug for his sister. He had argued with her on why he had to be the one to pick up her car and she made an excuse. But he knew what she was really trying to do. She was trying to push him to talk to Marco, even if the man didn't remember that he was that right now. Emma and his mother had good intentions, but August didn't want to reconcile with this man. It was too painful, especially with all that he knew now. When they had arrived to find out that Emma's father and the man that his mother would eternally love had been trapped in such an abusive situation, it had been the final straw for him.

Snow had raised him and he knew she loved him, just as much as she loved Emma. But it still didn't change the fact that it was Geppetto that had indirectly caused David's predicament and exacerbated the pain his mother was feeling. He hated when she was in pain. His mother was the strongest woman he knew, but he was still really protective of her. And this man's lies had hurt her deeply. Blue let it happen, so he had a lot of anger for her as well. Over the years, he had a lot of time to examine things. At first, he thought he should have been grateful to her for giving him life as a human. But then, the older he got, the more he realized that Blue had placed unfair conditions on her spell. He had to be selfless, brave, and true. And the more life threw at him, the more he realized how truly fucked up that was. No person was selfless, brave, and true all the time. It was an impossible feat. It was setting him up for instant failure.

Thankfully, Snow had come through the wardrobe behind him, her belly still round with child, her face broken from having to say goodbye to the man she loved. And still, even in her anger at Blue and Geppetto, she had taken him in her arms and loved him as her own. Without her, he didn't want to think about how he might have turned out. He had a good life and grew up to be kind, caring, and a good person. But it was because of Snow, a woman wronged by Geppetto and a fairy that lied to her. They implored him to never lie and yet they had no qualms about doing so themselves. He was angry and it wasn't going away, but he could compose himself long enough to pick up Emma's car from this man's shop. But that was it. He wanted nothing to do with him, even when he did get his memories back. His mother, Emma, and little David were his family. And soon, the man that his nephew was named after would be a part of their family. As far as he was concerned, there was no room for Geppetto, as harsh as it sounded, but that was how he felt.

"Mr. Swan...here for the bug?" Marco called, as he spotted him approaching.

"Yeah...just picking it up for my sister," he answered stiffly.

"You are a good big brother," Marco commented, as he handed him the keys and August paid him for the repairs.

"Your mother...she is very lucky to blessed with such loving children," the old man mentioned. August could sense the wistfulness and envy in his voice, but he didn't care. His anger had long overwhelmed any empathy for this man.

"We're the lucky ones. My Mom is amazing...and she gave up everything for us. But it's my turn to take care of her and make sure no one can ever hurt her again," August said. His cryptic response was a bit confusing to the old man right now, but August hoped his words would instantly resonate with him once his memories returned.

"Have a good night," Marco offered awkwardly, as the young man took the keys and left wordlessly. He felt no remorse in walking away from this man. He wasn't family anymore and he doubted he ever would be again. None of that mattered though, he had a family and now he was off to help them. He had spoken with Regina earlier and done what she had asked of him. She had a surprise to drop on her mother and Kathryn, which would be essential in fighting them, for he was sure by now that they were both learning that David had filed for divorce. And they would be on the warpath, which meant his next destination was the diner so he could be there to support his family in the strife that was to come.

~*~

David was absorbed by watching Mary with her grandson, as they sat in the diner and ate dinner together. It had been the most wonderful evening that David could remember having. And something in his heart tugged at him, somehow telling him that this was how things were supposed to be.

"You're Nana's sweet boy, aren't you…" Mary cooed to little David, as she spooned another bite of his baby food into his open mouth. Little David cooed and grinned at her in response. David had always wanted kids, as long as he could remember. But that had never come up as a topic of discussion with him and Kathryn. But then their courtship had not been an ordinary one. It all seemed like a blur in his mind. Essentially, from what he remembered, his mother died when he was still a teenager and he had then been adopted by her boyfriend, the District Attorney, Albert Spencer. But that had not been a blessing and rather a curse, so to speak. David had wanted to go to Veterinary school, but those dreams were quickly squashed by Spencer when he learned that Lewis Dior, owner of the bank and any real estate in town that wasn't owned by Mr. Gold, was looking for a suitable husband for his daughter, David had been offered up. Lewis wasn't fond of David's humble beginnings as the son of farmers, but Albert Spencer's adoption of him garnered him definite consideration. After all, the owner of the bank allied with the town's district attorney was a union that had benefits to both sides. David was against it from the beginning, as he had always dreamed of finding true love. But George had threatened him that if he blew this opportunity that he'd pay for it with his life.

Kathryn had been drawn in by his good looks and how sweet and genuinely nice he was. At first, he thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, but now he knew that his naivete was one reason she had seen him as her perfect victim. He was kind, sweet, and naive, so she knew keeping him under thumb would be easy. He was a good person, which made her manipulation of him easier and he was handsome, which made him the perfect arm candy to show off to her social circle.

Looking back, he realized now that Albert Spencer had offered him up to Kathryn's family like a piece of property and the district attorney had been paid handsomely for him. It had made David feel dirty from day one and he had never entertained the possibility that he could ever be free, until he met Mary. She had made him realize that he had courage he thought that had been stripped from him long ago. But he proved that to be wrong when he filed for divorce earlier that day. Of course, he knew this was just the beginning and so when Kathryn stormed into the diner and slammed the door behind her, he felt a shiver course down his spine. The look she was giving him was the same one she had a few nights ago, when she had made marks on his body...when she had belittled and controlled him...when she had raped him. He felt Mary reach for his hand under the table and squeeze it gently, somehow willing courage to him in a way he was was sure he had never known.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Kathryn growled, as she approached the table. Little David whimpered from his high chair and Emma plucked him up, holding him.

"It seems you know if you were served the papers," David managed to say boldly. Kathryn looked stunned, as if she couldn't understand where he was getting the courage to defy her.

"This is ridiculous, David! Get your coat and get in the car. We're going home," she demanded of him. He fought the urge to shrink away from her and Mary squeezed his hand again.

"No," he said in defiance.

"Excuse me?" she questioned dangerously.

"You heard me. I said no and that's not my home anymore. I'm divorcing you," he replied, loudly enough so that everyone in the diner heard. And it caused instant gossip to ripple through the masses.

"If you go down this path...I'll make sure you regret it," Kathryn warned.

"No...you won't," Snow snapped, as the blonde looked at the raven haired beauty and smirked.

"What? You have Grandma protecting you?" she hissed.

"She's my friend," David snapped. Kathryn rolled her eyes.

"Please...I know a cougar when I see one," she accused, but it didn't phase Snow at all.

"Better to be a cougar than a leach, because I think everyone knows that all you've ever done is suck the life out of him," she retorted, which really riled up everyone that was enthralled by the spectacle.

"I'm not someone you want to cross, Ms. Swan. You have a beautiful family...I'd hate for something to happen to them," Kathryn warned, making David's eyes widened.

"Oh, if you do anything to my family, I'll grind you to dust," Snow warned back.

"And if she doesn't...I will," Regina interjected, as she arrived with August.

"Deputy Mayor," Kathryn greeted, seemingly un-threatened by the Mayor's daughter. Regina smirked.

"For now...but soon I'll be the Mayor," she retorted. Kathryn laughed.

"You really think you can beat your mother out for her seat?" she asked incredulously, but Regina kept smirking.

"Oh, I think the people of this town are more than ready for a real leader and not the tyrant that is my mother. Things are changing in Storybrooke and I'm here to give you a very direct warning, Mrs. Nolan," she explained. .

"I encourage you not to fight this divorce or make any kind of move on David or the Swan family," she continued. Kathryn snorted derisively.

"And if I don't heed your warning?" she challenged. Regina's smirk widened.

"Then I publish this article I wrote this afternoon," August stated, as he held up a document.

"It airs all your dirty laundry...and your family's. All your father's dealings in this town, including certain deals he made with people like the Mayor and District Attorney Spencer. I assure you that it will ruin your entire world," he warned. She huffed.

"Sidney Glass is a friend. He would never agree to publish your trash," she contested. But Regina kept smirking.

"Except that I just bought the Storybrooke Mirror today and fired Sidney Glass," Regina informed, shocking them all. Kathryn frowned deeply.

"August is going to run it for me and will be head writer and editor now," she added, as Kathryn finally looked truly worried.

"Now run along and lick your wounds or go cry to my mother," Regina added, as the blonde stormed out in a frenzy. There were claps and cheers, as she did and Snow saw the people looking to her sister as if they had just found a new leader. What she had said was true. Things were changing in Storybrooke and as she felt David squeeze her hand in return, looking like the weight of the entire world had been lifted from his shoulders, she knew these changes were going to be for the better...

[stfumras]

The rape case against Rhiannon Brooker’s ex-partner had fallen apart.

Rhiannon had accused him of assaulting her numerous times over a two-year period, but detectives had found discrepancies in her story shortly after they arrested him, so prosecutors dropped the charges.

Elsewhere around the world, that would have likely been the end of it. Not in Britain.

Instead, one afternoon in January 2012, police in Bristol, a city in southwest England, called the 28-year-old back to the station for another interview. Rhiannon thought the purpose of the meeting was to bolster the case against her ex. Police were indeed trying to make a case – against her.

What Rhiannon did not know as she answered the detectives’ questions was that she was now suspected of perverting the course of justice by fabricating her allegations. The crime carries a maximum sentence of life in prison.

British authorities are supposed to exercise extreme caution when deciding whether to prosecute someone for lying about rape, especially if the person is vulnerable or if it’s unclear whether the accusation was made maliciously.

Rhiannon ticked many of those boxes. She told police that she had an abusive childhood. Police later said in court that Rhiannon had been extremely reluctant to move forward with the case against her ex in the first place. In fact, detectives blindsided Rhiannon when they arrested him without her knowledge or consent.

As investigators considered charging Rhiannon, one voiced a concern that had nothing to do with the evidence against her, documents seen by BuzzFeed News show. There was a “reputational risk” to the police if her ex “made a complaint or went to the media”.

When the recording light went on in the interview room, detectives told Rhiannon that prosecutors just wanted to “clarify some material”. They told her it was all completely standard – hopefully, they said, she wouldn’t have to come back again.

Rhiannon told BuzzFeed News that the questions they asked were, by now, familiar:

Why didn’t she report her ex-partner earlier?

“I didn’t want him to be arrested,” Rhiannon told them.

Was she sure she had stated the dates and times of each allegation correctly?

No, Rhiannon told them, they were just “guesstimates”.

“It’s not like I sat there looking at my watch timing everything,” Rhiannon recalled saying.

Rhiannon left the police station completely unaware the authorities were hoping to arrest her as soon as possible. By 2014, Rhiannon was on trial. She pleaded not guilty to perverting the course of justice but was convicted and sentenced to three and a half years in prison, separating her from her 9-month-old baby. The judge declared that she had lied in a “completely wicked” way.

Rhiannon is now a convicted criminal, virtually unemployable and forever tarred as a liar.

“They listened, they noted, they took it all down, then they just cast it aside and turned it against me,” she said.

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Rhiannon Brooker during her graduation.

A BuzzFeed News investigation has found that UK authorities are exceptionally aggressive in pursuing women for lying about rape, prosecuting hundreds over the past decade.

The Crown Prosecution Service, the state prosecutor for England and Wales, has even written rulesfor whom to target and when – something other Western countries don't do, experts say.

The policy is meant to restrain law enforcement from going after people who did not make clear and malicious accusations, those who are young or mentally ill, or those who have experienced past abuse.

But BuzzFeed News today exposes how prosecutors routinely fail to follow these rules as they send vulnerable women to prison. Our investigation can reveal:

At least 200 women in the UK have been prosecuted for lying about being raped in the past decade, according to a BuzzFeed News analysis of press reports. Most of these women were sent to prison, dozens of them with sentences of two or more years.

Prosecutors went after teenagers, and women who reportedly had mental health issues, had experienced past physical and sexual assault, or were grappling with drug and alcohol addiction.

Women were prosecuted even when they reportedly went to police only under pressure, quickly recanted, or never named their attacker at all.

The CPS has prosecuted women who police were not sure had lied. In one instance detectives declined to charge the woman for making a false complaint. Prosecutors went ahead anyway.

Yvette Cooper, Labour MP and chair of the influential home affairs select committee, described BuzzFeed News’ investigation as “very troubling” and called on the CPS to make sure the guidance is followed so that “victims are not deterred from coming forward” and “vulnerable women are not inappropriately prosecuted”.

Britain’s approach stands in stark contrast to that of the US, Australia, Canada, and other European countries. Women in these countries do not typically face prosecution – let alone prison – for lying about rape, state prosecutors and experts said, because it’s not considered to be in the public interest. Norway’s public prosecutions authority, for example, said its priority is encouraging more victims to come forward and warned that “a low threshold for opening a false accusation case could counteract this goal”.

A spokesperson for the CPS told BuzzFeed News that it prosecutes “very few cases” of false rape complaints and this should not dissuade rape victims “from coming forward to report their assault”. Prosecutors treat these cases “extremely carefully” and consider the mental health and other vulnerabilities of the suspect before deciding whether to move forward.

False rape complaints can ruin lives. Even suspects who are quickly exonerated can face public scrutiny and lose their jobs and reputations. But such cases are rare: A 2012 Ministry of Justice study estimated that only 3% of rape reports were “perceived to be malicious”. In contrast, most victims don’t report a rape to the police and when they do, a successful prosecution is unlikely. Only one reported rape in 14 results in a conviction.

Rape cases are, in general, notoriously complex: They rarely involve third-party witnesses, and research shows trauma victims often have fragmented and incomplete memories. CPS guidance on prosecuting false rape allegations warns prosecutors not to “resort to using myths and stereotypes once associated with victims of rape”, such as assuming they always have straightforward, consistent memories of events. It also makes clear that just because there is not enough evidence to bring charges, doesn’t mean there is proof the accuser is lying.

Even if the authorities strongly suspect an allegation is false, there are many reasons not to charge the accuser with a crime. The prosecutors in the 2006 Duke University lacrosse gang rape case – one of the most infamous false accusations in US history – seemed to understand this. They took no action against the accuser because they said she was not of sound mind and might have believed “the many different stories that she has been telling”.

The UK, however, seems to have a “unique appetite” for prosecuting false allegations, said Lisa Avalos, an American law professor who studies false rape reports. She has not found another Western country that “encourages” charges against suspected false rape reporters as a matter of policy, nor has she been able to find a case in which an American accused of falsely reporting rape has faced a jury trial.

“It is not in the public interest to aggressively prosecute disbelieved rape complainants,” Avalos said. “Rape victims commonly express the concern that police do not believe them and do not take them seriously, and these types of prosecutions only serve to reinforce victims’ fear of being treated poorly if they come forward.”

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British tabloids cover false rape convictions with relish, running dozens of stories a year about “attention-seeking” women who “cry rape”. It’s not uncommon for sentencing judges to call these women “wicked”; one male judge went as far as to say a convict had “betrayed the sisterhood”.

At least twice in recent years, UK law enforcement have wrongfully arrested rape victims for lying. One woman, known as “Sarah”, was jailed after retracting a true rape allegation. The case drew public outrage and a rebuke from a High Court judge.

In response, the CPS apologised and published new guidance in an effort to curb overzealous prosecutions, along with a review documenting 132 charges and 38 prosecutions during the preceding 17 months. It found that many of those accused of making false allegations were “young, often vulnerable people”. In nearly 40% of the cases studied, police received the initial rape complaint from someone other than the suspect – who then watched as the case “spiralled out of control and he or she felt unable to stop the investigation”.

The guidance instructs authorities that before going forward they must have enough evidence to prove that an allegation is false. But Avalos says her research shows there are not enough safeguards in place to protect women from wrongful prosecution.

“How can women feel safe reporting rape to police under these circumstances?” she said.

The CPS told BuzzFeed News it does not keep consistent data on how often it prosecutes women for lying about rape, although a spokesperson said that many of the 200 cases uncovered in BuzzFeed News’ analysis “appear to feature” prosecutions before the legal guidance was published. However, the press clippings show that the CPS has continued to go after reportedly vulnerable women. In May 2018, judges rejected an appeal by a woman whose lawyers argued her five-year jail term was “excessive” and didn’t account for her “significant mental health difficulties”. The same month, another woman with mental health problems was sentenced to four years in prison on appeal – her original sentence of community service and rehab was deemed “too lenient”.

The guidance was meant to ensure that prosecutions of women who falsely report rape “are the exception, not the rule”, especially if those women are “unwell”, said David Malone, the prominent human rights and criminal barrister who represented Sarah’s case.

BuzzFeed News’ findings, “if correct, make it apparent that the guidance has failed,” Malone said. “It’s not just concerning, but shocking,” he said. “Serious questions have to be asked of the CPS.”

The new guidance was published before prosecutors took Rhiannon to court in 2014. The same year, the CPS charged Eleanor de Freitas, a 23-year-old who had bipolar disorder. Psychiatric reports warned that the case could drive her to harm herself. Her own report to the police acknowledged she was unsure whether she consented to sex. And the detectives who worked on her case did not support the prosecution against her.

A CPS review found that actions taken in Eleanor’s case “were correct, and in accordance with our policies and guidance”, a spokesperson said. The decision to charge Rhiannon was likewise “made in accordance with the Code for Crown Prosecutors and was based on the strength of the evidence presented”.

The men in Eleanor and Rhiannon’s cases said the false claims destroyed their lives – and that the women deserved to be prosecuted. Alexander Economou told BuzzFeed News that Eleanor lied about him “as an act of revenge, because I rejected her”. Paul Fensome, Rhiannon’s ex-partner, told BuzzFeed News that it is Rhiannon’s own fault she landed in prison. “It started with a white lie, and it just snowballed,” he said. “She could have stopped it at any time, but she let it roll, and let it roll, and let it roll until it was too late.”

A spokesperson for the Avon and Somerset police pointed to “a number of factors in this case, including the fact the allegations resulted in an innocent man being wrongly detained and remanded in custody”. It would be a “travesty” if this case “were to undermine the confidence and experiences of victims in any way”, the spokesperson said.

But CPS guidance outlines many reasons why prosecutors could have chosen not to prosecute Eleanor and Rhiannon. They both fit the description of “vulnerable”. They were upfront with detectives about flaws in their stories. Some police officers did not seem convinced their cases would make for straightforward prosecutions. But alongside the consideration of “reputational risks” in Rhiannon’s case, and after a private case brought by a wealthy financier in Eleanor’s, the authorities went after them anyway – and shattered both of their lives.

RHIANNON

Something was clearly wrong with Rhiannon. She had shown up to law classes with black eyes, deep purple bruising across the top of her forehead, aching ribs, and a swollen finger in a splint. Persuading her to talk about it was like “getting blood from a stone”, a close friend would later say; Rhiannon would just make up excuses.

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Avon and Somerset Police handout photo of Rhiannon Brooker.

But slowly, Rhiannon started telling people – friends, a university lecturer, and a domestic violence counsellor – that her partner sometimes beat her up and, increasingly, forced her to have sex.

From January to May 2011, they pressed Rhiannon to go to hospital, seek legal advice, and start counselling. But much to their frustration and concern, Rhiannon still wouldn’t report Paul, a railway signal operator who was 43 years old to her 24 when they met.

In April 2011 she emailed her lecturer a document with a list of times she claimed Paul had abused her. “It is literally thrown together and makes no sense in places,” Rhiannon wrote to the lecturer, adding that she’d elaborate when she could “find the courage to put down the more difficult things that I am still struggling with the details of”.

Finally, in late May, Rhiannon spoke with police. Detectives noted her reluctance; the first officer she met with spent four hours persuading Rhiannon to give him Paul’s name. Among her many concerns, he noted, was “fear of losing control of the situation, i.e. police taking over and going ahead with prosecution without her”.

Over the next two months, detectives spent hours with Rhiannon in the hopes she would give a formal statement accusing Paul of sexual assault. Still, she held back. Prosecutors would later argue in court that Rhiannon was reluctant because she knew her accusations were fake – and that if police got involved, they’d out her as a liar.

Although Rhiannon hadn’t given a formal statement, police did exactly what she feared. On 1 August, they arrested Paul without her consent, based on their interviews with Rhiannon’s friends, and photographs and medical reports about injuries she’d claimed to have suffered at her partner’s hands.

When detectives told Rhiannon that unless she gave them concrete evidence, they’d have to let Paul go, she handed over the document she had sent her lecturer, and she sat for hours of videotaped interviews, answering officers’ questions about when and where each alleged incident had occurred. She wasn’t great at recalling dates and other details from the past two years, she told police, because she never thought she would actually move forward with a case. Detectives saw her as a victim and tried to reassure her.

“I wouldn’t use the term ‘have sex with you’,” one detective said when Rhiannon described an unwanted encounter. “I’d say it’s rape.”

At the end of the interviews, detectives praised Rhiannon’s cooperation and promised she would always have their support.

“We ain’t gonna go anywhere,” one told her.

ELEANOR

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Eleanor as a baby with her mother and father, David de Freitas.

Dr Christopher Bench was away for Christmas in 2012 when his psychiatry practice received an urgent phone call that “something traumatic” had just happened.

The call came from Eleanor, a patient who traced her mental illness back to her first year in university. Once a sociable straight-A student, she had withdrawn from both class and social activities, even turning off her phone for three months. She lost weight, refused to leave her bed, and contemplated suicide.

She was diagnosed with depression and, later, bipolar disorder, and she began seeing Bench, who prescribed antidepressants. After two years of ups and downs, in the spring of 2012 Eleanor had a full breakdown and began “harbouring grandiose delusional beliefs”, Bench wrote in a psychiatric report seen by BuzzFeed News. She went on manic shopping sprees she couldn’t afford, accused her parents of trying to poison her, and claimed her landlord had sexually assaulted her. She was sectioned and admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a month while doctors adjusted her medication.

For a while after she was released, she seemed “very much improved”, Bench wrote. She took up Pilates and dance, and started socialising again.

But at the appointment following her emergency call, Eleanor appeared “tense and quite guarded with a degree of grandiosity”, Bench later wrote. She “acknowledged she was not well”. Eventually, Eleanor told Bench that she had been “sexually assaulted by someone she knew”. A few days later, she went to the police and started talking.

Eleanor was at a party a few months earlier where some of Chelsea’s young and wealthy had gathered to celebrate a birthday. Wearing an elegant, long-sleeved dress with her honey-blonde hair pulled back to show shimmering gold earrings, the 22-year-old had hit it off with a man named Alexander – a tanned, dark-haired 33-year-old financier and son of a shipping tycoon with whom she shared some mutual friends.

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Eleanor and Alexander at a friend's birthday party in 2012.

After the party, Eleanor and Alexander became friends on Facebook and started sending each other lighthearted and flirtatious messages, records show. They chatted about sexual fantasies, and Eleanor offered to give him a massage. For a while their relationship went no further than the messages.

Eventually the two met up for a Sunday brunch date at Alexander’s apartment in Chelsea. They spent a few hours chatting, eating pizza, giving each other massages, and having sex, Alexander said. “She was supremely confident and taking the lead in almost everything we do,” Alexander later wrote on his blog.

He was horrified when he learned that Eleanor had told police a different story. She claimed he would not let her get her phone from her car unless she let him tie her up and that he’d poured water over her face in what Eleanor described as “waterboarding”. “I feel that I made it clear to him that I wasn’t into, to paraphrase him, ‘this kinky shit’,” she told police.

They had sex at least once that night, Eleanor told police, maybe twice. Her memory was hazy, she said. Her bipolar medication often made her drowsy, and she wasn’t supposed to drink with it. Asked by police if the sex was consensual, she replied: “I don’t think so, I was just laying there frozen with fear, I didn’t say yes, or no, I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t in control of my body, I was groggy....”

Alexander completely denied that account. He said that Eleanor consented to being tied up and that far from being waterboarded, she had asked him for a drink of water and it had spilled on her.

Alexander was arrested around two weeks later on suspicion of rape.

He spent a night in custody and six weeks on bail before the police released him without charge. He would later start a blog called “Falsely Accused” and discuss the case extensively in court and in the media.

He told BuzzFeed News that Eleanor was “100% guilty” of making up a “malicious” lie. “I’m not going to be bullied by people who suggest she is a victim,” he said. “Because she is not a victim, she is a nasty piece of work.”

When police didn’t charge Alexander, Eleanor thought the case was over, and so did the detectives who had worked on it. They had no plans to investigate her for lying. But someone else did.

RHIANNON

“Load of rubbish,” Paul told police after they arrested him in August 2011. “I've never sexually assaulted or hit a woman in my life.”

He faced 19 charges of rape, attempted rape, false imprisonment, and assault.

Paul was able to provide evidence that he was working or out of town for some of the dates when the assaults were alleged to have happened, and mobile phone data and road camera footage cast doubt on others.

Police and prosecutors met to figure out what to do next, and came to a sobering conclusion: They no longer had a case against Paul. “They eventually saw through her lies and knew she was lying all along,” Paul told BuzzFeed News.

At this point they also started to worry about something else. Paul had spent more than 30 days in jail, which didn’t reflect well on police. “I felt the reputational risk to the constabulary was great if the original suspect made a complaint or went to the media,” detective inspector Janice Pearson wrote in a memo later discussed in court. An Avon and Somerset police spokesperson told BuzzFeed News that “reputational risk” is “never” a factor in charging decisions.

They decided not only to drop charges against Paul but also to go after Rhiannon.

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“The arrest of the original victim was to be done in a very respectful manner,” Pearson wrote, “understanding there may be some truth to the account or that she had a previous history of abuse which was manifesting itself.” Officers gave an additional, baffling reason for investigating Rhiannon: She “would be very upset if the case was dropped and she would need an explanation which we would not provide sufficiently without arrest,” Pearson wrote.

Prosecutors then asked detectives to interview Rhiannon once more. They did not tell her she was now a suspect.

This was a controversial strategy. “I felt we would be treating the victim as a suspect but not affording her the rights as any other suspect who is arrested,” Pearson noted. She said they took care to prepare questions that were “open”, giving Rhiannon the opportunity to explain discrepancies in her story.

Prosecutors were not happy with the subsequent interviews.

Pearson claimed in her memo that she “received a very angry phone call” from a prosecutor, who upbraided her for not pushing Rhiannon “until she broke down and made an admission so she could be arrested”.

The CPS refutes this version of events “entirely”, a spokesperson for the agency said.

The case against Rhiannon was closed – for now.

ELEANOR

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For six months, Eleanor’s case was as good as closed.

But in the summer of 2013, Alexander brought a private prosecution – criminal proceedings carried out not by the state but by ordinary citizens or companies. “I intend to get your daughter sent to prison for a very long time for the crimes she has committed,” Alexander wrote to Eleanor’s father.

A private case has the same powers as a state prosecution. However, the CPS can stop a private prosecution if it believes it is not in the public interest. So in September 2013, Eleanor’s lawyer wrote to Keir Starmer, the director of public prosecutions at the time, asking him “as a matter of urgency” to stop Alexander’s case, saying it “falls short” of CPS charging standards.

Prosecutors did the opposite: They took up the case against Eleanor themselves.

And they overruled the Metropolitan Police to do so. Detectives did not want to charge Eleanor and refused to reopen their investigation, documents show. They believed that a prosecution against her would not succeed.

Alexander and the CPS say the police simply failed to investigate and were not in a position to form a view.

In fact, prosecutors didn’t need the police. Instead, they adopted the case handed to them by Alexander’s lawyers.

That case included the mutually flirtatious Facebook messages exchanged before their date and text messages Eleanor sent to mutual friends afterwards. She told one that she had “fun” and the pair were a “good match”, but later she texted another friend that she was on “suicide watch” after Alexander “fucked me and chucked me”. Prosecutors also pointed to CCTV footage of the couple’s shopping trip to Ann Summers – a high street lingerie and sex toy shop – the day after the alleged rape, as evidence that Eleanor’s “actions and behaviour” were “wholly inconsistent” with the allegation of rape she made.

Alexander told BuzzFeed News that the CCTV was conclusive. “Tell me, have you ever come across a rape victim who goes to a sex shop immediately after?” he said.

CCTV footage of Eleanor and Alexander shopping the day after the alleged incident.

The head of the CPS, Alison Saunders, would later say the footage “unassailably contradicted” Eleanor’s account of the shopping trip.

Even so, under CPS guidance “the first question” before deciding to prosecute someone for lying about rape is whether the accusation was “clear and unambiguous”. Eleanor’s account to the police raises questions about whether this test was met. However, a spokesperson said the evidence in Eleanor’s case “was strong and it was clear there was sufficient evidence for a realistic prospect of conviction”.

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After Alexander launched his private prosecution, Eleanor began to spiral. The rape counselling that the police had arranged when she was regarded as a victim was withdrawn, because she was now a suspect. Having lost the anonymity granted to rape victims, she was terrified of being identified in public. She became delusional and her behaviour turned increasingly bizarre, documents show. She believed that she was being followed and her phone had been bugged, and on one occasion police found her throwing food and shouting at staff in a supermarket.

Before they pursue false rape charges, police and prosecutors consider whether the suspect has any significant mental health issues, according to CPS guidance. The CPS was given a psychiatric report, which determined that Eleanor was fit to stand trial because she had the mental capacity to understand and challenge the court proceedings. But the report included a key caveat: She would need to be constantly evaluated, because the nature of her illness meant that her state “could quickly change”. His ultimate concern: She might kill herself.

He wrote that Eleanor was at “chronic and significant” risk of suicide.

Prosecutors set a court date.

RHIANNON

When police told Rhiannon they were dropping the case against Paul, she fled to the riverbank with a bottle of vodka and packets of antidepressants. But, slowly, she got back on her feet: She continued counselling, started thinking about going back to law school, and began to date a former coworker. Then, in November 2012, six police officers knocked on her door.

After Rhiannon’s last interview 10 months earlier, in which she was an unwitting suspect but police had not secured a confession from her, police had assigned more resources to the case against her.

In a memo later introduced in court, the police superintendent wrote that they had enough evidence to soon arrest Rhiannon. It also noted that Paul had recently filed a formal complaint against the police. “I was lucky my case never went to court,” Paul told BuzzFeed News. “It’s an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

Even before a jury decided whether Rhiannon was guilty, authorities sent Paul £45,000 for legal costs and damage to reputation.

The six officers who arrested Rhiannon for perverting the course of justice took her to the police station.

There, Rhiannon told BuzzFeed News, she met the lawyer assigned to her case and learned she might be asked about her childhood trauma. After getting advice, she decided to confess in hopes she would just get a caution without having to talk about her past.

Still in shock, Rhiannon said, she read out loud a statement to police: “The allegations were not true and I’m sorry that I made them. I find it very difficult to understand why I said these things.”

Rhiannon made the confession because it “seemed like the best option at the time”, she told BuzzFeed News, and because she thought it could help her avoid prison. “It seemed like the only option, to be honest.”

It didn’t work. She was charged with 20 counts of perverting the course of justice and pleaded not guilty.

Police conducted a thorough investigation of Rhiannon’s life in order to secure her conviction. It was a harrowing experience: She later told the court that police contacted social services about the allegations against her and said they believed her then-unborn child was at risk.

They also dug through Rhiannon’s decades-old medical records and spoke with her childhood classmates to investigate whether she had faked other injuries throughout her life and lied about being abused as a child.

Rhiannon’s family members told police that her childhood had been abusive. The CPS guidance says that prosecutors should consider previous histories of domestic or sexual abuse when deciding whether to bring charges. In this case, prosecutors did not believe Rhiannon and moved forward anyway.

ELEANOR

The thought of testifying in open court so terrified Eleanor that she started showing up to court in a burqa to hide her face. Her lawyers hoped she wouldn’t have to take the stand, but they could give her no assurances. The reason: The CPS failed to share Eleanor’s police interview, despite a court order to do so. Without seeing this key piece of evidence, Eleanor’s lawyers say they couldn’t decide whether they would need further testimony from her, or whether they could make the case without putting her on the stand.

But finally, the CPS coughed up the tape, and on 4 April 2014, three days before her trial, her lawyers planned to give her good news: She didn’t need to go through the ordeal of testifying. They believed her police interview was convincing enough.

It was too late. That very morning, Eleanor’s mother found her hanged at their family home. “Dear Mummy and Daddy,” she had scrawled on the lined paper of an old diary. “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I feel trapped and that there’s no way out.”

Eleanor asked that her funeral not be overly somber: “I would like happy songs‚ All things bright and beautiful. Bright and happy party dresses.”

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In the aftermath of her death, Eleanor’s parents demanded answers from the CPS, and won a meeting with Saunders, the director of public prosecutions.

Saunders apologised for the “unacceptable” late disclosure of evidence. It’s a problem she has had to address a number of times since, in the wake of an ongoing scandal over failures to disclose evidence in rape cases.

But in a statement in 2014, she said she was “satisfied that the decision making in this case was correct and that it was made in accordance with our policies and guidance.” Prosecutions for false rape claims are rare, she said, “but where there is sufficient evidence to show that a false claim may have been made, the potential harm to those affected must be very carefully considered and an appropriate decision made”. The CPS had carefully considered “Ms de Freitas’ mental health”, Saunders added.

The police, however, stood by their decision not to pursue Eleanor. “I have always maintained that Eleanor shouldn’t have been prosecuted,” detective inspector Julian King wrote in an email to Eleanor’s father.

After Eleanor’s death, Alexander sued Eleanor’s father, David de Freitas, for libel, saying he had endured weeks of “public rubbishing” after David publicly questioned why the CPS chose to prosecute his daughter. Alexander is currently appealing the case after a judge dismissed it last year. David declined to comment.

“I really hate that fucking family,” Alexander told BuzzFeed News. “He’s got all the feminists into a frenzy thinking that she’s some kind of victim.” “I’m the victim,” he said, “not them.”

This week the attorney general denied Eleanor’s father’s request for a public inquiry, confirming his view that it was right for the prosecution of Eleanor to go ahead.

RHIANNON

Bulbs flashed as Rhiannon walked through the courtroom door in April 2014, her 9-month-old daughter in tow. Since she was now on trial, tabloids were allowed to trumpet Rhiannon’s name: “Trainee barrister cried rape 11 times to avoid taking exams.”

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The prosecution initially said this was Rhiannon’s motive.

Rhiannon had been “reluctant to seek help because her allegations were untrue”, the prosecution said. “In reality she was having a nice time” with Paul.

Prosecutors introduced evidence showing that Paul’s arthritis prevented him from making a closed fist and a medical expert who reviewed photos of Rhiannon’s injuries and said they were compatible with being self-inflicted. They told the jury that Rhiannon had sent threatening texts to herself using a “mystery” mobile phone and then deleted them.

Perhaps the prosecution’s strongest evidence was that Paul had a “cast-iron” alibi for two of the 20 charges and that mobile phone analysis and other data seriously undermined others.

Rhiannon was cross-examined on the “list” she had long ago emailed her lecturer with the acknowledgement that it “makes no sense in places”, which she gave to the police after they arrested him. Also under scrutiny were dates she had referred to in police interviews as “guesstimates”.

Prosecutors said that Rhiannon had spun a years-long web of lies about Paul that had tricked many people in her life – friends, domestic violence counsellors, doctors, a lecturer, and finally experienced detectives – leading them to “substantiate her false allegations” without realising the deceit.

The prosecution argued that Rhiannon would have left Paul if she were truly afraid of him, and that she was an independent women capable of standing up for herself.

“These are dinosaur prejudices,” Rhiannon’s barrister said in her closing statement. “This prosecution has been a throwback to the bad old days.”

But throughout the proceedings, the prosecution reminded the jury: “This is not a rape trial.”

The prosecution abandoned its “student cried rape in order to pass her bar exams” argument after the defence pointed out that Rhiannon was an “outstanding” student and the allegations took place before and after school.

After an 11-week trial, the jury of 10 men and two women convicted Rhiannon on 12 counts out of 20.

Even after the verdict, no one seemed sure of a motive. “I don’t know why she did what she did,” judge Julian Lambert said, sentencing her to three and a half years in prison. “The likelihood is she cannot know herself.”

Rhiannon’s body, still producing milk, physically ached for her baby while she was in prison. She marked the days in her diary. “Didn’t even recognise my own daughter today,” she wrote after one visit. “This is so so cruel on her.”

Three months in, Rhiannon learned the solicitor general had appealed against her sentence – it was “unduly lenient”, they argued. Rhiannon was terrified: “That is absolutely my last chance of having a relationship with [my daughter] and it’s the last thing they could take from me,” she wrote.

The appeal was rejected. Rhiannon was released early in November 2015, after almost 17 months in prison. When she first sat down in the car on the way home, Rhiannon recalled, a strange expression came over her daughter’s face. “She just looked so confused,” she said. She spent the remainder of her sentence “on tag”, with an electronic monitor attached to her ankle.

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Rhiannon now lives in a remote area hours away from the closest airport and unlisted on Google Maps. Once, she planned on dedicating her life to the law. Now she struggles just to get a supermarket job. She spends her days homeschooling her daughter while her partner is at work. On days off, they build sandcastles on the beach. If her family hadn’t stuck by her, Rhiannon said, she wouldn’t have been able to cope.

“I’m one of the lucky ones,” she said.

[inky-imagines]

Tea-ee’s OC special

With this, I’ve completed all the OC specials, sort of.

There’s still one more, but the person never sent the info I need so I haven’t been able to write it. I could just ask them for it, but it’s been a while, and I think I bothered them enough at the time (AKA, I’m a asocial coward who doesn’t like messaging people).

Anyhoo, this one’s for @tea-ee​. Sorry it took so long. I hope you enjoy! ^^

TW: Mentions of death and violence

The attack had been brutal. All battles were, he knew that, but this kind of mindless destruction hadn’t been seen in centuries.

People milled around the shattered guard, careful not to tread on the innumerable injured member lined up on the floor. Ewelein and her team were working overtime to accommodate the many, many hurt member who’d been caught in the initial blast. Working so hard to keep anyone from joining those who’d passed.

Ezarel looked away from the sight, focusing on the slow drip of his burette. It was calming on the worst of days. The regular drops falling into the beaker, filling it slowly with vibrant colours gave him time to think. To breathe.

Now it felt like choking.

He can still remember the first explosion. How people were literally thrown through the air from the force. The bloody battle that had followed after. He’d gained new scars in that fight. Nothing to be proud about; he’d almost lost his life after all.

But those hadn’t been the worse part of the attack. No. It was the aftermath.

Names were called, people searched for. Some answered back, a few were found. Most were not.

They searched, and they saved and they hoped, but no. They’d lost more than they could’ve ever imagined in less than an hour.

The entire Eldaryan guard brought to its knees by a small group of people and some explosives.

“Pathetic.” He hissed, fist curling against the table.

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, Ez.” You stood in the destroyed doorway of his lab, a cheeky smile on your face. “You can’t help it.”

He snorted, turning back to the equipment, both appreciating the sudden company and wishing you’d leave him be. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“You technically did though.” Sauntering in, you appraised the damaged lab with a raised eyebrow. “Damn, they really trashed the place, didn’t they?”

“It’s still functional. Unlike other areas.” He could feel your body heat as you stood beside him but refused to meet your gaze, choosing to continue watching the steady drips.

“Barely.” A hand delicately landed on his shoulder. At the lack of reaction, you gripped it more firmly – more reassuringly. “You hanging in there?”

He shrugged half-heartedly. “Doing better than the others.”

“The others are barely keeping their shit together.” You retort. “They’re not the best measuring stick.”

“They’re the only one I have.” He finally looked at you, forcing a half-assed smile. “And you? I heard you were pretty close to the initial blast.”

“As you can see,” You gesture to your bandages and gauzes. “I got off pretty lightly all things considered.” He nodded in agreement, returning to the apparatus once more.

Truthfully, he wasn’t strong enough for social interaction. Heavy guilt constantly weighed him down. Questions and scenarios of how he could’ve prevented all of haunted him. The past day’s events had left him lifeless; it was a miracle he was even able to work when all he wanted to do was to collapse and never wake up.

At the same time, he needed the closeness. Needed someone, something, to pull him from the whirlwind inside his head. Needed to be reminded that not everything was lost.

And you seemed to understand that, taking a seat beside him and quietly looking through the forensic results of what little evidence they’d collected. For hours, you both just sat there, in perfect quiet, the only sounds breaking the temporary peace were the sounds of rustling papers or an occasional cough from the floor below.

For the first time in what felt like years, Ezarel was at peace.

“Hey, Ez?” He glanced at you questioningly. “What’s that?”

You gestured to the brightly-coloured bottle in his hands, the finished product of his hours of titration.

“Analyser. Concentrated.” Seeing your mystified look, he explained. “We use it to [analyse and track something based on what we’ve found on the crime scene.”

“Huh. Didn’t know you guys had forensic science too.” You crossed your legs, the documents in your hands placed neatly on top. “Didn’t Nevra say there was no trace at the site though? What’s the point of that?”

“Anything leaves a trace, Y/N. It’s just a matter of finding it.” He tucked the potion on his belt, collecting a few more drafts from the table and gesturing for you to do the same.

The bottles are suspiciously examined, but you load them into your arms, following him out the door. “You've found something?”

“I suspect something. I need the analyser to confirm it.” Down the stairs he went, you jogging to keep up with his long strides.

“And what,” You ask, pausing to watch Ezarel hand the concoctions to the medical staff and injured. “Do you suspect?”

He didn’t answer for a while, continuing to pass out the medicine before pulling you to a quiet corner. “I think,” He stopped, swallowing. “I think we have a traitor amongst us.”

Your reaction wasn’t at all what he expected. Surprise, fear maybe even disbelief. But he got… nothing. Nothing at all. It was like someone had swiped you clean of everything that made you human, leaving a cold robotic shell in your place.

“Y/N?” At the sound of your name you shook your head, expression and life returning to your features but it was too late. A small pit of dread settled in his stomach.

“Sorry, sorry. You surprised me so much I zoned out for a moment.” You said, scratching your cheek. Your expression goes from bashful to serious as you return to the topic at hand. “Didn’t we deal with the traitor already? Leiftan’s gone and there’s no one else with a motive, right?”

Muttering how it’s just a theory and you should keep it yourself for now, he slunk away. He didn’t want to consider it, even hypothetically, but your reaction…

“Damn.” He growled, fingers raking through his blue locks. “They’re a suspect too.”

-

Logic was a bitch. It was unforgiving, cold and indifferent. No matter how you look at something – in the end, no matter how you wanted – objectively, the truth never changed.

Usually, he loved that. But now it made him sick.

No matter how he spun it, looked at it, broke it down and build it up, the conclusion never changed: you were the traitor.

You were the one on guard duty that night. The closest to the blast, but relatively unharmed all things considering. You had the motive, you had the skills. You didn’t have an alibi beyond your own word.

“Damn it!” The desk shook from of the force of his punch, it’s trembling slowly steadying even as his breathing did not.

He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t.

You were so kind, so sweet. Even with the wrongs they’d done to you, he couldn’t imagine you resort to such senseless violence.

And the others wouldn’t either. Even if the circumstantial evidence screamed that you were a danger to the guard, nobody else would believe him. He’d need physical proof of your betrayal before e could talk to anyone else about this.

But where could he find his proof? What would he do if he didn’t find anything?

A steadying breath. “One step at a time, Ezarel.”

The obvious place to search was the blast site,  a small alcove on your patrol route. It was less of an alcove now and more of a gaping hole in the wall.

There hadn’t been enough time to properly fill the void, so the hole had a few strips of flimsy tape ‘covering’ it that did nothing to block out the chill of the night.

Almost as if it was cursed, people avoided the area, some going as far as taking a longer route just be saved the walk past the painful reminder of their loss.

The lack of people and chill of the night air made the entire area far creepier than it should, and for a moment, Ezarel considered leaving the investigation until tomorrow.

But this couldn’t wait.

At first, it seemed the place was barren of anything useful. Some shrapnel here and there, a little-dried blood the clean-up crew that missed. Nothing he could use. Then he saw it.

Your knife. A once beautiful silver blade he and Valkyon had taken great pains to craft for your last birthday, now it lay on the ground blackened. And lying next to it…

“Flint.” This was worse than he thought. Before this point, he’d thought your role would be limited to a mole of sorts. The worst you could’ve done was the rest of the attackers in. But this…

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” His blood froze. Behind him, you approached. You moved too quickly for him to react, to quickly for him to comprehend what you’d done until he spied the blood-soaked blade in your hand.

He collapsed, a hand pressed against the wound in his stomach.

“_-____....” You appraised him with that same cold, robotic look from before. The blood staining your hands didn’t seem to bother you at all.

You both stared at each other, one with the pain of betrayal, the other with nothing at all.

“Why- why would you do this?” The question is spat out with his blood, the words are dripping with pain.

“The stabbing or the betrayal? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure they’re both pretty self-explanatory.” You turn away, bending to pick up your knife. A shadow of melancholy crossed your features as you stare at it, turning it in your hands.

“You betrayed us! Why?”

“Of all the- Are you serious?” You laughed – a bitter, harsh bark that sounded so wrong from your mouth – clenching the knife so hard he could see rivulets of blood run the blade. “The potion? All the times you’ve used me as bait? The way you leave me to pick up the pieces every time you’ve finished ruining my life?“

“Your grudge is against us: the captains. You shouldn’t have gotten innocents involved.” He just has to keep you talking. With such copious amounts of blood spilt,  there’s no doubt Nevra would find him soon; he just survives until then.

Your face crumples so suddenly, he’s taken back. “I didn’t want to… all those people…” Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but there’s a wet glint in your eyes. You square your shoulders, eyes narrowing. “I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“God, you sound like a bad action flick.” You snort, kneeling beside him. Let’s make something clear: I didn’t want this. Or for all those people get hurt. But-“ Gone is the soft, almost apologetic look, replaced with bitterness and anger. “If it means you suffer, even a little, I’d do it all over again. You understand? You people took everything from me. I’m repaying the favour.”

He tried to speak, to protest, but something blocks the words. He could only stare into your hateful gaze with dread. This person you’ve become… he’s afraid. Of what you can do. Of what you will do.

“_____.” You both turn to see Ashkore, standing just outside the hole, arms crossed. “We’re leaving.”

“You-! You’ve been working with him?”

“Obviously. We share an interest in your demise.”  

“You’ll never get away with this.” He managed past the pain and dread. His defiance only amused you though; a giggle just as acrid as the last escaping your lips.

“I think you’ll find I currently am.” You push yourself up, standing tall over his vulnerable body. A foot is raised, and he flinched. “Don’t worry, Ez. Nevra’ll here pretty soon I’m sure. You won’t die today.” You smiled radiating pure malice. “You don’t deserve the luxury. Goodbye.”

Then your foot came down and his world turned black.

[amyscascadingtabs]

please don’t say I’m going alone

He hates the Universe because he has a single hour left of hugging a girlfriend who is now asleep by pure post-crying exhaustion, an hour left of trying to memorize every little detail about her. He hates the Universe because there's only a month left until their one year anniversary and now they won’t get to celebrate it together, because she just spent all too much time away from him undercover in prison in Texas and now they're being separated again, because her face is puffy and pink from crying and he thinks his might be as well.

Or, what went through Jake’s head before he said goodbye to Amy for Florida.

This was actually kind of a semi-prompt from @alwaysandbeyond who wondered aloud in the tags why Jake chose the selfie of Amy he has with him in Florida and prison and said that someone should write a fic about it. Truth be told I’ve always been curious about this so I… wrote the fic. Hope you like it and apologies in advance for the feels

read on ao3

Jake has two hours before the first of four cars that will take him and Holt to witness protection in Florida arrives. He spends them both at Amy’s apartment. There’s no use in packing if he’s not allowed to bring anything with him; no use in anything but hugging his girlfriend so tight he fears he is squeezing her small frame to pieces, all while telling her repeatedly he loves her and won’t forget about her. Not a great promise, considering he has the memory of a goldfish. But he remembers emotions. He remembers anything that caused a strong emotional response at the time or still does. So yes, he’ll remember the woman who has made him feel love in all its different kinds - from aching, unrequited infatuation to the effortless and tender-hearted commitment they’ve reached after almost a year. He’ll remember the fierce but quirky, competitive but lovable detective who just told him she loves him so much and wants to move in with him until he’s old and gray-haired and rotting away in a retirement home in Coral Palms. “They’ll get you out of Witsec”, Amy keeps on repeating for their first ten minutes of their two last hours together, while Jake can’t stop imagining the nightmare scenarios of never getting home again. “We’ll get you out. We’ll catch Figgis. You’ll come home. You have to come home.” He agrees with her. Both of them know nothing's for sure and maybe they really will never see each other again, but last hours are better spent pretending than accepting brutal realities. There will be plenty of time to do so in Florida, he assumes. Amy cries. Long, heaving sobs shake through her body and her tears dampen his t-shirt when she’s pressed tight against him, the two of them together on her bed for the last time in a long while. He tries not to think about how her bed would have been their bed someday soon if Figgis hadn’t called when he did. We should move in together. Haha, said the Universe. Very funny. Jake officially hates the Universe. He hates the Universe because he has a single hour left of hugging a girlfriend who is now asleep by pure post-crying exhaustion, an hour left of trying to memorize every little detail about her. He hates the Universe because there's only a month left until their one year anniversary and now they won’t get to celebrate it together, because she just spent all too much time away from him undercover in prison in Texas and now they're being separated again, because her face is puffy and pink from crying and he thinks his might be as well. He knows he won’t forget her, but he also knows he cannot possibly remember everything, because there's so much to notice about Amy Santiago he’s discovering new things every single day. Some days it’s the cutest constellation of moles at the small of her back, some days a brand new meal she can actually cook without burning the kitchen down or poisoning them both, and one day she even tells him the back-story about a tiny dot in white ink on the foot; a relic from one of the few times she got drunk at a college party and wanted to know what getting tattooed felt like. Other days he discovers how the shape of her eyebrows change marginally sometimes because she claims it’s impossible to fill them in exactly the same every day, or how the sparkling gleam in her eyes when he tells her he loves her is different from the one she gets when she’s really excited over a case, but not all too different from when she’s truly engaged in re-reading the Harry Potter novels for the umpteenth time. (Jake’s not yet sure if he should take it as an insult or a compliment to mean roughly as much to her as he’s discovered those seven books do. From the amount of Ravenclaw or Hogwarts-stamped paraphernalia he keeps finding in various places over her apartment, he’s hoping for the latter.) No photograph could capture the all-consuming focus in her expression when she watches Jeopardy or how melodious her laugh sounds when it's untamed and authentic. Her quick-witted comebacks or the adorable way she scrunches her nose when Hitchcock says something distasteful couldn’t ever be framed into a picture, no matter how skilled the photographer. He knows he’d find every single one perfect, but they still wouldn't capture enough. Maybe he should follow the orders someone gave him and abstain from bringing anything personal to Florida. On the other hand, maybe it could be helpful to have something physical there to ground him. Something to look at to know she’s real and exists somewhere out there, something to remind him she’s more than an intricate and hyper-realistic daydream, might help during all the months and maybe even years he’ll be stranded without her. It’ll have to be a photograph. A picture won’t capture any of her intelligence or humor, but there’s a chance it could capture a sliver of the ethereal beauty she is and right now a chance of a sliver is all he needs. The question is simply which one. He has a ton of pictures of her in uniform or with other members of the squad, all unusable. A picture of her at work would be too difficult to explain should someone see it. No cop pictures. There are even more dorky selfies of the two of them together, making funny faces or even trying to hold the camera up and kiss at the same time, but right now only seeing them so free and happily unknowing is an all too painful sting. And a picture of him with a girl would be even yet more suspicious if he got caught; there’d be no way for him to deny ever knowing the woman in the picture and he’d be screwed. No couple pictures. It doesn't leave him with much. For a moment he’s scared no picture on his phone lives up the necessary requirements, until he swipes far enough to reach a collection of shots he’s nearly forgotten. The pictures are from approximately two months into their relationship, back when everything was still new and a little intimidating. They’re taken in his apartment, and if he closes his eyes, he remembers the moment clear as day. ~ nine months earlier “There are so many Die Hard pictures in your camera roll. Honestly, Jake - aren’t some of these identical?” Amy’s on his couch, taking up most of the space with her head on one armrest and her feet in his lap. They’re looking through each other’s phones for some trivial reason mostly to do with boredom; it began with Jake needing help to spot spelling errors in a text, and now they’re having too much fun looking at pictures in the other person’s gallery to stop. “I don’t know that for sure and I’m not deleting any of them until I have proof!” He tickles her left foot with his free hand, the corners of his mouth twitching when it makes her giggle.  “And you have way too many pictures of laminated documents to get to tease me about Die Hard.” “I’m confident I could prove some of these are the same. And lam' jobs are important! I have a blog!” “And I follow said blog! Because I’m an awesome supportive boyfriend!” “Then where are all the pictures on your phone of me, huh? The ones you show your college buddies when you’re having a beer together and bragging about the attractiveness of whatever girl you’re hooking up with?” He can tell she’s trying to fake seriousness, but she keeps interrupting herself with fits of laughter. “Isn’t that what all white heterosexual cis men do when they meet up?” “Amy Santiago, how dare you assume I’m straight?” He’s the one laughing now, his grin growing wider from the sight of hers. “And I have plenty of pictures of you. I think. I had to delete some because I was running out of space for Die Hard stills.” “Maybe I should solve the issue. I’m deleting all the Die Hard stills I know you have doubles of and replacing them with selfies.” “Real mature, Ames.” His eyes light up when an idea hits him. “Ooohh, wait - will there be selfies of you in just a bra? Without one?” “Yeah, I’m the immature one of us two right now”, she scoffs, but the smile on her lips lets him know she’s not really mad. “And no, there won't, because I’m classy. And afraid of you leaving your phone on your desk and Charles somehow finding them.” “You know he’d just be ecstatic I had them.” “That makes it worse. Now, I need to get to work.” She sits up straight and holds out the phone a little bit in front of her so it captures part of the wall behind her as well. “This is serious business.” Jake lets the camera click once, twice, before he dives forward and into the frame. The sudden impact of his weight against her makes Amy fall to the side, and the next few shots come out blurry as he attacks her with a little sloppy but mostly playful kisses. “You’re ruining the pictures”, she whines. “Nah, I’m making them better”, he claims then and puts the camera app on timer before pressing another kiss to her lips. “Now I can show my hypothetical college buddies pictures of me kissing you, so they’ll know you’re for real.” “That would be an issue?” “Oh yeah, they would never believe I was actually dating you. You’re way too pretty.” He swipes through the collection of pictures of them kissing they’ve taken now, showing her the few of them that turned out reasonably sharp. “You’re way too pretty!” “You’re prettier.” “No, you are - oh god, we really are that horrible lovey-dovey couple everyone hated in high school, aren’t we?” Amy hides her face in her hands. “What have we even become?” “Doesn’t matter, because these pictures are hella adorable. I won’t even delete them for more Die Hard stills.” ~ He desperately wants to take one of those cheesy pictures with him to Florida. Even in the less sharp ones, it’s evident to anyone with a functioning pair of eyes how happy they are, and it makes Jake curse silently when he remembers that happiness is being taken from them now, picked up and dumped right into a coursing river of destruction by Figgis. (He should’ve just become an accountant or something equally mind-numbing because at least then he would never have to leave her.) But a picture of the two of them together is too risky and too revealing of his past, so he options for the second best thing - one of the few selfies Amy captured before he joined her. She looks considerably more serious in this picture than in the next one, her lips more a shy smirk than the wide grin she has in the pictures with him, but she looks gorgeous enough for him to want to look at it forever. More importantly, it’s a reminder the next pictures exist. It’s a fragment of a memory of better times, and it’s all he’s brave enough to bring. There’s a buzz from the Bluetooth printer on the desk in Amy’s bedroom as the picture begins to print. Her head shifts a little from where it’s resting on his chest, startled by the sudden noise, and he very nearly starts crying again, because in fifty minutes he’ll be separated from her with nothing more to keep than the selfie he already knows he’ll be staring at until he’s memorized every inch. He’s not going to forget her.

[little-red-beret]

Soukoku pls. Dazai goes home from the ADA with a very bad migrane and chuu gets home later. After dazai throwed up everywhere while he wanted to reach the bathroom. He is all miserable and sick. But also the ADA thinks someone should look after him so they send someone and find chuu and dazai together after he helped dazai and cleaned up. Thank you~ love your works!!!

A/N: Thanks, anon!

When Dazai woke up that morning to a blurred, distorted world, he never questioned it. He thought it was because he had fallen asleep with a face mask on (he had stayed up until 3:30am working on a report that was due and after finishing it had tried to treat himself but fell asleep instead) but even after washing his face, everything was still blurry. As he got dressed, ate breakfast and commuted to work, he constantly wondered what was causing his eyesight to go so bad. It was an overcast day, and by the time Dazai stepped out of the train station rain was pouring down.

Dazai spotted Yosano on his way to work, and walked quickly to catch up to her. “Yosano, my vision has been blurry all morning,” He complained to her. “Do you know what’s wrong with me?” Yosano stopped in the middle of the footpath, face darkening. “Go home,” she warned him. “You have a migraine.” Dazai looked at Yosano in disbelief. “That’s impossible. My head doesn’t even hurt.” “You should probably believe me, Dazai. I’m a doctor, and I know a migraine when I see one.” Yosano replied sternly.

Across the road, Dazai noticed a blurred Atsushi making his way to the detective agency. “Well, I don’t like your answer to my complaints and you can’t SEE a migraine so your argument is invalid. I’m sure Atsushi will give me a better response. ATSUSHIIIIIIIIIII!” Dazai called, dashing across the road. “You’ll see, Dazai! Just remember I warned you!” Yosano called after him.

“Atsushi, everything has been blurry all morning! Why do you think this is?” Atsushi blinked at Dazai with a puzzled look on his face. “It’s raining, so why don’t you just wash your eyes out with the rain?” He suggested curiously. Dazai liked this response much better, and it seemed like a good idea, so Dazai happily caught the rain in his hands and wiped at his eyes. However, everything was still blurry, so he decided it was best to drop the topic for now.

All morning Dazai caught Yosano watching him from across the room, eyes gleaming psychotically. Dazai had no clue why she was bothering. She had already tried to tell him it was a migraine and he had proved her wrong. He still felt completely fine, and was more concerned about why his eyesight was suddenly so bad. Surely people couldn’t go blind overnight?

Close to midday, Dazai learnt that no, people could not go blind overnight, when he was suddenly shocked by a sharp pain in his head. He sat up with a start, eyes wide in surprise. It felt like someone was driving a screw into his temple. Dazai glanced up and his eyes found Yosano, who was grinning smugly, finally able to make the ‘I told you so’ face at him. Dazai only felt half bad for not believing Yosano. He had never had a migraine in his life, so why would this kind of thing start when he was twenty-two? It seemed ridiculous to him. Dazai stood up, but he was so dizzy he simply crashed to the floor, accidentally taking a stack of important looking documents down with him.

One hour later Kunikida’s car pulled up outside Dazai’s house. “Thanks for driving me home….” Dazai said weakly. “Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?” Kunikida asked for the fifth time. “I’m fine….bye….” Dazai replied before staggering out of the car and cautiously making his way inside. He had taken painkillers and a nap before leaving the detective agency just so he could be in good enough condition to make it home. Even so, he was barely holding himself together. His head pounded, his vision was tunnelling with each second he spent upright and the pain of it all was enough to make him feel physically ill.

In the entrance to his house, Dazai shut the door and slid to the ground, hearing Kunikida’s car drive away. He really didn’t feel good. At this rate he could have happily slept right here on the floor if it meant not moving, but it seemed Dazai’s stomach had other plans. Dazai moaned in pain but was cut off by a wet burp. It was only then he realised that he may have been about to be sick and should probably go to the bathroom. Dazai grabbed the wall and pulled himself up. Immediately his vision darkened and the intensity of the throbbing in his head increased. He was so stunned and dizzy that he could only manage one step before crumpling to the floor. His stomach lurched and hot acid shot up his throat.

Dazai curled over as a wave of sick spilled onto the floor. He could only take one breath before he coughed up the next wave, retching and gagging loudly. He was glad Kunikida hadn’t stayed after all. This would have been humiliating. If anything, it still was humiliating. As he coughed up his stomach’s contents, all Dazai knew was he needed to clean this up immediately, as soon as he was done.

Dazai’s stomach gave one final heave, leaving him empty and lightheaded. He sat, panting over the mess on the floor, reeling with dizziness, and spat to get rid of the lingering bile in his mouth (he was doomed to clean this up anyway). Despite his head burning like it was covered in branding irons, Dazai was already thinking about how to dispose of this mess. Straight after any disaster Dazai would always be planning his response, as was his calm and levelheaded nature.

Dazai tried once again to get up so he could put his plan into action, but the moment he put weight on his legs he wavered and fell back to the ground. His head pounded. He felt so helpless that he couldn’t help but let out a small whimper. Changing his strategy, Dazai decided it was best to lay right there next to his pool of vomit and wait for the world to steady itself. Or maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly after all and this was just the migraine and his desire to give up and sleep.

As expected, the world never steadied itself, at least not before Dazai became aware of the reverberation of footsteps on the wooden floor. They grew stronger and closer, until Dazai felt a hand on his shoulder. “Dazai,” the voice of an angel called softly from the heavens above. “What happened to you?”

It was none other than Nakahara Chuya, Dazai’s 'hot mafia boyfriend’ (he hated when Dazai called him that) who would probably get Dazai fired from the detective agency if anyone knew they were together. None of that mattered right now, though. Dazai just wanted to melt into Chuya’s arms and achieve a blissful state of unconsciousness.

“I have a migraine….” Dazai whispered faintly. “Sorry…. that mess….” he murmured, and got up to try cleaning again. That went about as well as anyone could have expected. Dazai’s head spun from the sudden movement. He stumbled and fell, only being saved by Chuya’s fast reflexes. Chuya put one of Dazai’s arms around his shoulder and helped him into the bedroom.

There were two bedrooms in the house; this particular room was Dazai’s but they usually shared it. Chuya carefully laid Dazai down, and Dazai felt that he had never been so relieved in his life. It felt like Chuya had placed him on a cloud and he was floating through the bright blue sky…. just how strong were those painkillers Kenji had given him? “Don’t worry about the mess,” Chuya assured Dazai softly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Dazai squeezed his eyes shut, wishing Chuya had closed some curtains before he left. He stayed like that for a good five minutes, until Chuya returned and pulled Dazai into his lap. Dazai responded by rolling over and nestling his head into Chuya’s stomach to block out all the light. Chuya ran a hand through Dazai’s hair, but Dazai’s sensitive skull caused him to reflexively slap Chuya’s hand away. Chuya jerked back, crying out in surprise. “Please do not touch my head….” Dazai whisper-asked politely. Chuya ran his hand up and down Dazai’s back instead, apologising quietly. Everything about him was so gentle and soothing right now. Chuya was only ever like this when he knew something was wrong with Dazai. Despite his suffering, Dazai was starting to relax. Everything felt muted and distant. Perhaps the painkillers and Chuya���s presence were having a good effect on him.

That was all ruined when the door to the room opened. The click of a gun had Dazai sitting bolt upright, causing his vision to tunnel for a second. Chuya rose from the bed, pistol trained on the intruder. “Back off.” Chuya growled. Dazai’s vision came back into focus and he froze. Standing in the doorway, surrounded by bright halos of light, expression fearful but also determined, knife pointed at Chuya, was Tanizaki Junichirou. A member of the armed detective agency was pointing a knife at Dazai’s Port Mafia boyfriend. Two alternate figures of Dazai’s double life that never should have clashed were staring each other down in Dazai’s bedroom.

“Tanizaki?” Dazai inquired in a tone of casual confusion. It was best not to give away his alarm right now. “Step away from him and leave!” Tanizaki yelled at Chuya. He was great at looking tough, but Dazai knew poor Tanizaki was probably scared out of his wits. Dazai sighed tiredly. “Both of you, put your weapons down.” He ordered. Mind foggy from the painkillers, Dazai wanted nothing more than to lay back down and sleep. He screwed his face up in pain and massaged his temples. This was not the time to lose his rationality.

“What’s going on?” Chuya demanded, not taking his eyes off the young detective. “Chuya, this is my coworker. Tanizaki, what are you doing here?” Dazai asked. Chuya tossed his gun onto the bed, no longer feeling threatened, but Tanizaki kept his knife pointed tensely at Chuya. “Everyone was really worried about you, so I was sent to make sure you were okay. The door was unlocked when I got here.” Tanizaki explained nervously.

“Looking after Dazai is MY job. You can go home now, kid. It’s past your bedtime.” Chuya gloated. Tanizaki put his knife away, but the expression he shot at Chuya was icy. “Chuya, you’re half his size. Please don’t talk about my coworkers like that.” Dazai intervened calmly. “What are you to Dazai?” Tanizaki demanded. That was all it took for Chuya to go from 'scary criminal mode’ to shy and flustered. His whole face turned red and he ran a hand through his hair, eyes dropping to the floor. All he could manage was a tiny 'um’ before Dazai decided to do it for him.

“He’s my boyfriend.” Dazai stated bluntly, grinning affectionately at Chuya, who winced and turned even redder. Dazai leaned forward and teased Chuya with a smirk, “What, still not used to that word?” “You’re supposed to be sick.” Chuya hissed, glaring back at Dazai. “Thanks for your concern, Tanizaki. Send my word to the armed detective agency.” Dazai concluded, wishing to hurry things along, and then added with a nervous laugh, “Will you please not tell anyone about Chuya and I? We’re both still very shy about this topic.” Chuya’s embarrassed face only complemented Dazai’s lie. Dazai himself was not shy at all about having a boyfriend. He would show Chuya off to the world if they weren’t from enemy organisations.

Tanizaki gave a kind smile. “Your secret is safe. Also…. I’m sorry for pulling a knife on you, sir. It’s just…. I thought for a second because of all the black clothing that you were from the Port Mafia. Ah, I feel so foolish for thinking that now!” Luckily, Tanizaki had never heard Chuya’s name or seen him before so he truly had no idea Chuya actually was from the Port Mafia.

Chuya laughed nervously. “I’m sorry for pulling a gun on you,” He replied, causing Tanizaki to pause. “Wait…. why DO you have a gun?” He asked uncertainly. “I gave it to him to keep him safe.” Dazai answered hastily. Tanizaki nodded skeptically. “I hope you’re feeling better soon, Dazai!” He said, waving goodbye. “Sorry for the intrusion!”

Once they heard the front door shut, Dazai’s dull pain and drowsiness came crashing back down onto him. He fell back onto the bed, eyes falling shut. Chuya, equally exhausted from the tense encounter, sank onto the bed beside him. He turned his head to the side and whispered to Dazai, hot breath tickling the side on his face. “You’re such a smooth liar, Dazai….” “Maybe lay off the black a little if you want to keep our secret safe.” Dazai slurred tiredly before he lost consciousness.