#as well as your actually crazy victim mentality (previously held by me)

[moneypedia]

How to Defend Against False Accusations: A Personal Defense and 5 Guidelines to Protect The Truth

August 5, 2018 By Drew Shepherd

[Note: This post contains details about an undiagnosed case of borderline personality disorder (BPD). These details are included for informational purposes only, not to spread hate towards people with the illness.

If you or a loved one have been diagnosed with BPD, however, you may want to avoid this article.]

Guilty until proven innocent.

That’s the new norm these days.

Our current social climate has made it empowering to be a victim. And any abusers left standing must be exterminated—whether they’re guilty or not.

Please don’t think I’m downplaying the experience of actual victims though.

I know what it’s like to be among the lowest of society, and the struggle of real victims is part of the inspiration behind this site.

But the inconvenient truth is that all these “abusers” aren’t the monsters they’re made out to be.

Why do I say that you ask?

Because I’m one of them.

And this is my story.

The Accusation(s)

During my early twenties, I got involved with a girl who I later realized had borderline personality disorder (BPD).

I’ve already written about the experience and I’ve alluded to it multiple times since. So please read that article before this one if you haven’t already.

BPD is a serious mental illness, but most people have never heard of it, let alone know how to diagnose it.

If you’re not aware of how people with the disorder act, this post will come off as a rant against an innocent girl who liked me—which couldn’t be further from the truth.

But to summarize, the most notable symptom of BPD is the inability to regulate emotions. It’s a symptom so powerful that a sufferer’s feelings can define his or her reality. And this is what leads to many false accusations.

Manipulation, emotional abuse, cheating, promiscuity—she publicly accused me of all them.

It’s part of the process of “painting someone black.” The BPD person goes through cycles of both extreme love and hate for their loved one, but once the relationship ends, the other party is permanently devalued.

Of course this treatment is reserved for those in close relationships with the BPD sufferer. Outsiders will only see a victim pleading her case.

I’ve stayed quiet on these accusations so far since most of them don’t have any substance, but I unfortunately made one mistake that appears to give her claims some validity.

So I’m sure that she already has, or eventually will use this evidence against me. And if her false accusations were to gain traction, they would not only destroy my reputation, but also the legitimacy of the message I present on this site.

The latter is my primary reason for defense.

I’ve always said that the Bible is the basis for my moral judgment, and that couldn’t be more important than in sexual matters.

Now do I always control my lustful impulses and thoughts?

And do I always prevent myself from viewing images I shouldn’t see?

No.

I’m a Christian but I’m still a sinful human being. Controlling lust is part of the lifelong battle against sin in the Christian life.

But when it comes to things like fornication and adultery, I’ve held true to my stance on abstinence.

And as tough as it is to be a twenty-something with this stance in our sex-saturated world, it’s beyond frustrating to be accused of doing the complete opposite.

I’m an ambassador for what I believe. And I can’t allow anything on this site—faith-related or not—to be diminished because of one person’s claims.

So I’ll go into detail here about what really happened, and then I’ll show you how to defend against false accusations once and for all.

Drew “The Player”

I’ll preface my story with a little background information.

I was going into my last semester in college, and it had been about a year since I saw my accuser in person.

Things didn’t end well between me and her the last time we were “together.” But I was admittedly still interested in her—even with all the red flags.

It appeared that both of us were sad with the way the first go ‘round ended. So I foolishly tried to work something out with her before the semester started.

To my surprise, I was ignored and indirectly shot down.

How a normal girl would’ve reacted

It hurt pretty bad after putting myself out there for someone I thought still cared. But rejection is a part of life, so I moved on.

What’s crazy though, is that she changed her mind at some point afterwards. And even though I never got a direct response from her, she apparently assumed we were in a quasi-relationship.

Now fast forward to February.

It was the week of Valentine’s Day. And while I did still think of her, I wasn’t sending a Valentine’s Day anything to a girl who I didn’t trust, who now lived in a different state, and who couldn’t even respond to my direct communication.

The only reason I entertained the thought of us getting back together—if we were ever truly together in the first place—was because she hoovered me back in.

Hoovering is a term that describes actions similar to what its namesake, the Hoover vacuum does.

It’s a tactic people with personality disorders subconsciously use to suck loved ones back in after a failed relationship.

In this case, she used one of the social media apps we both had to convince me that she was open to a renewed relationship, and that she had changed for the better.

But at this point, I was just focused on schoolwork because I had no clue what this girl was thinking.

I had a senior project for an external company that took most of my time that semester.

My project group and I met just about every weekday. And at the time, we were all trying to meet a deadline coming up the next week.

The day after Valentine’s Day, one of my teammates mentioned that we should go play trivia at a local bar. But being the introverted party-pooper I am, I declined.

My schedule involved waking at around 5:30 each day. My teammates were always out too late for my liking, and I knew I’d never make it back in time to get enough sleep if I went.

So I gave the whole, “Thanks, but no thanks” spiel even though I knew they wouldn’t let me off that easy.

Our team was a pretty tight group—especially for four people who were assigned to each other at random.

We had a ton of inside jokes by the end of the semester. And they were the first to tease me at graduation because my honor stole nearly fell as I walked across the stage.

So naturally, they all had a good laugh at me for not wanting to miss my bedtime.

Of course it was all playful fun though. I did get back at them numerous times over the semester, but I’ll admit that I have an off-kilter personality that lends itself to being teased.

So anyway, we went our separate ways and I headed to bed.

The next day, I saw an email from the night before saying that I was invited to a school-specific social app. I didn’t see the email until the early morning though because I went to bed early.

I had never heard of the app before and I was skeptical. So my first thought after waking and reading the email was, “What the heck is (app name here)?”

My second thought was, “Who’s the funny guy who sent this?”

Now I knew it was someone who previously had my email address.

Of course any student could have pulled that info from the school’s directory, but I doubt anyone would have gone through the trouble of searching their class roster, finding me, and then using my email address for the sake of hitting me up on an app.

So it had to be someone with whom I worked with closely or had a personal relationship with.

With these facts in mind, I falsely concluded that it was a prank from my teammate that the rest of the group was in on.

They had just gone out together the night before. And they always found a way to mess with me—even when I wasn’t around.

So just like any other time I felt I was being pranked, manipulated, or taken advantage of, I played along with the hope that the other party wouldn’t realize until it was too late (and this has been my M.O. since I was a kid).

But doing this, in hindsight, was a terrible idea.

Any form of participation on what I later realized was a hookup app would paint me in a bad light. And the consequences of my actions weren’t as clear at 5:30 in the morning.

After I made a quick profile—complete with pictures no man would ever use if he was truly seeking casual sex—I waited about 15 minutes for a response that never came.

Then after realizing how bad my actions could appear without context, I quickly deleted the app and went on with my day.

I’m not sure if I completely wiped the profile I created. But since the app was lesser-known and low key about its hookup aspect—it’s not like I signed on to Tinder—I figured this wouldn’t be a problem.

Outside of my own actions with the invite and the app though, I don’t know anything else. But there’s a chance that a troll profile made 10 minutes after I woke could end up biting me. And that’s why I’ve chosen to address it.

Now, I’m almost certain this invite was from my accuser. And I still kick myself for not recognizing the true source of the bait.

My actions gave her the apparent confirmation that I was “playing the field.” And within the week, she either started, or just made it obvious that she was sleeping with another guy to spite me—a wild and disproportionate response to the thought that your S.O. may be seeing someone else.

So once I confirmed that this actually happened, I ghosted her and all her drama, focused on my schoolwork (which led to my first 4.0), and then went along with my life.

People with BPD are notorious for doing stuff like this. It’s the reason why a popular book covering the illness is called Stop Walking On Eggshells (affiliate link):

They’ll cry about a lack of communication but then ignore you when you reach out to them.

They’ll go on about how lonely they are while sleeping with one of their (or even your) “friends” behind your back.

They’ll say you’re too stupid to complete a task but discredit you when you do it, and then raise the bar higher so you won’t reach the new mark.

After a while you won’t know what to do because she’ll never be satisfied. And everyone else will chalk it up to you not knowing how to treat a woman.

No-win situations and constant testing are common to those in relationships with these people—especially in regards to anything sexual. So I presume the invite was a test to see if I was some dirtbag who would cheat on his partner.

Now I’d hesitate to call it cheating either way since she ignored my attempts to directly communicate, and I had no idea what our relationship status was.

But the other “fact” she gathered was that I was a player who enjoyed casual sex (an assumption that would have driven a younger me mad with laughter).

Look, I understand that I don’t have a squeaky-clean Christian boy appearance—going through trials doesn’t purify the outside after all.

But that doesn’t mean I partake in the same activities those who look like me may be into. And it for sure doesn’t mean that my moral character is anything different than what I present on this site.

Of course it doesn’t help that I’m black either…but I won’t go down that road.

I should also note that I don’t have a personal Facebook or Instagram account. So it’s tough for others to know much about my life unless they read this site or talk to me or my loved ones personally.

This blank space makes me an easy target for accusations since I can be unknowingly attacked through mediums where I can’t defend myself. And there are no videos of me playing with my dog to fill the holes left by my “shady” lifestyle.

Usually this isn’t a problem as most of the people I meet don’t care about my online presence. But of course there’s always one person who assumes the worst case scenario. And it’s sad that in my case, this person was someone I genuinely liked before.

These obsessive behaviors were nothing new though:

This same girl cried sobbed in the middle of one of our classes—when we were both in our twenties mind you—because I didn’t initially return her interest.

She would go from spaced-out to depressed and then stare at me like it was my fault.

She even accused me of cheating after seeing a pic my mom took of me when I was at dinner with my family.

So you can imagine the relief I felt when I closed the door on that for good.

At this point, the only ones who still believe her lies—or to be fair to the illness she has, her reality—are people I’ve never met.

But I’m not even mad anymore. I’m just annoyed that my life is still negatively affected because I fell for the wrong girl.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the honest truth.

How to Craft Your Defense

So now that my story’s out of the way, how do you fight your own false accusations?

It’s not too difficult.

Just follow these 5 guidelines to protect yourself in both the present, and the future:

1) Remember the Alibi

As tempting as it is to piece together a story that makes you look like a saint, you have to ensure the truth you present is actually…well, true.

Since I couldn’t remember all this off the top of my head, I dug through my old emails and group conversations to get the timeline right. And I could always use them again if legal action was involved.

It also helps that I have an archive of posts here that clearly present my personality and the mistakes I’ve made.

You can even compare this post to the one I wrote on BPD earlier and you’ll see numerous similarities. If anyone thought I was lying, they could search the other 40+ posts here too to see that the story adds up.

But if you don’t have thousands of words as supporting evidence, just take your time, breathe, and write down what happened as best as you remember.

False accusations can cloud your memory when you first hear them, and your emotions will push for a raw defense. But if you start writing what you remember, you can put that passion to good use now, and update your writing later with more facts.

A story set in writing will be a great resource to have. You don’t want to lean on your memory or your speech when the pressure’s on.

If you write down what happened, you’ll also find other bits of evidence you’ll need to prepare your defense. And if your audience is really concerned with the truth, they’ll take all the info they can get.

2) Compare the Fruit

Perhaps the easiest way to expose the shakiness of false accusations is to note the shakiness of the accuser’s lifestyle.

This is by far my least favorite technique though since it appears to be an attack on character instead of the accusation itself. But understand that those two targets aren’t mutually exclusive.

A person who usually acts one way is almost certain to do it again.

And no, that fact isn’t judgmental. It’s simple probability.

This is going to sound like I’m bragging about my accomplishments and attacking her character, but let’s compare some notable points about my life and my accuser’s:

I improved to at least a 3.5 GPA in my last four college semesters within a STEM major. But I’ll admit my accuser was booksmart, so we’re pretty much even there.

I have never gotten blacked-out drunk (or even consumed alcohol). I have never taken an illegal substance. And I have never lived a promiscuous lifestyle. My accuser has done, and probably still does, all three.

I landed a stable job in my field more than a month before I graduated, and I’m still employed there today. My accuser barely held a job as a bar server about a year after graduating with the same degree.

Again, I don’t like expressing my achievements, and I never want to attack anyone’s character. We all make mistakes, and I made one of the biggest mistakes any student ever will (which she contributed to by the way).

But when someone’s lifestyle displays a clear pattern of incompetence, recklessness, and mental instability, the validity of their claims also takes a hit.

And that’s without mentioning that I’ve written the equivalent of a book here at HFE—a site where I cover my own shortcomings just as much, if not more than my accomplishments—on my own time and dollar because I believe it will help others.

So knowing all this, let me ask you, who do you think is telling the truth?

A tree’s fruit always gives it away.

Know who you are and know who you’re dealing with so any other lies are dismissed as the jokes they are.

3) Change “I” to “We”

The most unfortunate thing about false accusations is that no one’s waiting to hear a verdict.

As soon as those words leave your accuser’s mouth, you will be facing much more than one person.

Friends, family, social circles, even whole communities may turn against you.

And what began as a defense against one liar becomes a battle against an entire army.

So what do you do when this multitude of warriors stands against you?

It’s simple.

You gather the troops.

Find people who can vouch for your story. Get help from friends who aren’t blinded by the lies. Ask people who were neutral bystanders to explain what happened since they’re not biased.

I know I can get anyone from former classmates, friends, and family members to acknowledge the truth of my claims.

And since I know the mental issues my accuser deals with, I can also refer to a psychologist or another mental health resource.

An understanding of my accuser’s mind is one of the best counters to her claims. Yes, she acts in unstable ways, but they’re predictably unstable, and numerous people have experience with the problem I have now.

You shouldn’t be afraid to get professional help either.

Lawyer up if it’s serious enough.

Slander and libel are legit crimes. And if you can prove that your life is heavily impacted, especially financially, you may have a case.

So don’t go at this alone. You can bet your accuser isn’t.

4) Go One and Done

The biggest mistake people make when presenting any argument, defense, or reasoning is that they over-explain themselves.

Sure, you want to be as thorough as possible in your explanation, and you should reference points of that original argument to answer questions. But there’s no need to add to your stance or sate a mind that will never believe you.

If you’ve taken the necessary steps to present and defend the truth, you have to live with the results.

Learn to be comfortable with the fact that everyone won’t like, listen to, or believe you. Because the more you add to your original defense, the weaker it will appear.

You’ll also introduce more room for error. And it would be a shame for a memory lapse to cause an otherwise solid defense to fail.

Remember that it’s only your job to present the truth. Not to make others believe it.

I’m confident that my defense removes any ammo my accuser has left. So now the only claims she can bring against me are accusations of neglect—which don’t matter since I’m not her parent—or causing hurt feelings—which isn’t a crime in America yet.

I presented the truth one time, and now there’s no need to address her claims again.

Every accusation doesn’t deserve a response. So stay true to what really happened, and let people think what they want afterwards.

5) Don’t Even Fake It

These accusations have made me realize the importance of the Bible’s command to, “Abstain from all appearance of evil.” (1 Thessalonians 5:22 KJV)

It’s not enough to just avoid evil acts. You have to avoid situations where you could possibly do them too.

For instance, plenty articles on false accusations describe how to protect yourself against false rape claims. But if someone can accuse you of something like rape without an obvious fabrication, you are in over your head.

You can’t reach the point where a verdict is decided by a “yes” or “no.”

It’s one of the many reasons you shouldn’t sleep around in the first place. You are putting your life in the hands of someone who could easily change their mind in the morning. And you have to stay out of that gray area.

Remember to guard your character at all times. You never know when you’ll need to fall back on your integrity.

For example, I remember one conversation I had with a friend a few years back, and my accuser happened to be in the room.

My friend noticed that I received a few glances of interest from girls. So out of the blue he asked, “Drew, how many girls do you get?”

He chuckled while asking the question, so of course it wasn’t anything serious. He didn’t ask about anything explicitly sexual either.

So being the joker I am, I said something along the lines of, “I don’t know. I lost count.”

Then the both of us laughed it off.

But there’s a chance my accuser heard those words and immediately assumed the worst.

It would have been ridiculous to say something like:

“I’m sorry sir, but I am a Bible-believing man of God who has accepted the challenge to live righteously. How dare you imply that I live such a heinous lifestyle?!”

So I had a quick laugh and moved off the subject.

But even this could have added to her claims. So now I try not to even joke about stuff like that—at least not when I’m around people who barely know me.

You should do the same. But don’t limit your efforts to watching your tongue:

Always dress in a respectable manner.

Avoid the crazy nighttime venues—they’re magnets for people like my accuser.

And please don’t go to a hotel room belonging to a member of the opposite sex.

Presentation always matters.

Avoid the appearance of evil, and it’ll be impossible to even accuse you.

Grant Me That Chance

I’ve had enough headaches from my past relationship, and I’d rather not think about it anymore.

But it was important to defend myself here before any other false info leaked.

I hope none of it came across as too aggressive though. I wrote all of this to clear my name, not to get revenge.

From all I’ve seen, read, and now experienced, real victims don’t go out of their way to destroy their abuser’s life. They just want justice and a chance to finally move on.

So if anything else comes up about this, please remember this point and grant me that chance.

Contrary to what some people think, I don’t hate my accuser, and I hope she’s able to turn her life around.

If there was a normal version of her who didn’t have what she had, I’d love to meet her. But the ship has sailed on anything between me and the real her.

All I want now is peace and the freedom to live a good life. And I’m sure that’s all you want too.

So remember who you are, take a stand for the truth, and then defend it with your life.

And who knows? Someone else may come to your defense if you do.

-Drew

[gingerseattle-blog]

“Heels” - Spencer Reid x Reader

Hey, holy shit, I haven’t written serious fanfiction in 3, maybe 4 years? And never for Criminal Minds or as an “x Reader” ship. So like, pardon my inexperience? I’ve just been reading a LOT od Reid x Reader fics and I wanted to write the one that I would’ve wanted to read. If Spencer is wildly out of character then. Yeet.

TW: attempted rape, some major violence, sexual assault

“You know, the BAU has an opening for a new profiler. You might find it fun, Dr. Y/LN,” Dr. Reid commented offhandedly as you exited the courthouse together. A practiced clinical psychologist, you were often being called in as an expert witness on cases. Dr. Reid, as an FBI profiler, was almost always at the courthouse for the same reason. Over the years the two of you had grown from strangers to acquaintances to friends. And, if you allowed yourself to look at him as more than a peer, you found yourself starting to develop feelings outside of the realm of casual friendship. Not that you would ever admit it to yourself, much less to Dr. Reid himself.

“Can the federal government even afford me?” You replied with a snort.

“You work at a public hospital and take contract work from local prisons. I’m sure a pay cut would be out of the question. And high heels aren’t a necessary part of the dress code.”

You let out another snort before leaning down to fish through your purse for a pair of tennis shoes to change into from your professional heels. “I only wear the heels on court days. Plus, I enjoy my job too much to consider leaving it. I can’t just,” you stuck your tongue out while thinking of the right word to use. The word escaped you as you knotted your laces and you sighed. “I can’t leave my patients. It’s not as easy as talking down a crisis situation, shooting a gun, and calling it a day. I actually get to watch these people recover.”

Dr. Reid shrugged and held out a hand for you to stand back up to your full height. You ran a hand through your hair, shaking it out of the neat curls you had worked so painstakingly hard on to look put together for court. Dr. Reid smiled at you as you blew a strand of hair away from your face. You walked together to the nearest coffee shop in a companionable silence.

-----

“You know, Warden, there are other treatments for mental illness besides intense medication,” The click of your heels reverberated off of the walls of the prison as you walked with the warden of the prison from an annual psych visit at the local maximum security prison. This was an argument you were constantly having with the directors and wardens of the prisons you visited, one that you never won. It was a waste of breath, but you figured you may as well continue emphasizing it. Maybe it would click one of these days.

“Dr. Y/LN, while I appreciate your experience, we don’t like to change the routine here at Elkwood. Now, I would love to take you up on your suggestion, you know that the guys who sign my paycheck won’t go for-“ The two of you froze as a deafening alarm rang out. “Get to the front of the building!” He yelled, pushing you forward down the hallway.

Except, his shove was too forceful and your heels were too high and you landed face first on the tile. When you looked up and over your shoulder, you saw one of the men you had just visited in the psych unit rounding the corner.

In his hand, you noted all too slowly, was the blood soaked ridge of a sharpened toothbrush.

------

“It could be a psychotic break? The instigator gets put in solitary one day too many and when he’s let out, he snaps?” Derek suggests, flipping through inmate profiles. Rossi nods absently from the driver’s seat.

“Possibly. But from the preliminary reports, we’re talking about a man who has created his own weapon. That takes time and a desired target. This was premeditated.” Spencer pipes up from the backseat of the FBI van. This case was local, a hostage situation at a federal prison just outside of DC so there was no need for the jet.

“What else do we know so far?” Rossi asks.

“Two dead, one visitor is being held hostage. I won’t know who it is until we can get the visitor sheets or footage. If our subject is capable of killing but has taken this one person hostage, they must be special. I’m thinking it’s a family member. Either his own or someone else’s, maybe to use as leverage.” Spencer looks out the window as they pull into the parking lot of the prison. There’s a familiar car in the visitors parking space, but he can’t place where he’s seen it before. He takes in the bumper stickers as he hops out of the van. A few pro science stickers, including a very familiar “Hail Sagan” sticker, college alumni decals, and a hospital parking pass.

“Hotch,” Spencer calls nervously. “Who’s our hostage?” Deep down he knows it’s you, but until he knows for sure he can deny it.

“A senior clinical psychologist from University Hospital. She was here for a routine check up on the inmates in the psych unit.” Hotch looks down. “Her name is Doctor-”

“Her name is Doctor Y/N Y/LN.” Spencer swallows.

“A friend of yours?” Derek cocks an eyebrow while tightening his bulletproof vest.

Spencer nodded, unable to speak. An acquaintance, a friend, a woman that he admired both for her intellect and sharp personality. A woman that for years he had been trying to convince to come work with him in order to be closer to her. A woman that was now in very real danger.

-------

“I’m beginning to lose my patience with you, good doctor,” A patient of yours, Noah Pearson, a convicted serial rapist with a rap sheet that spanned for miles dragged his makeshift blade across your cheek. You felt a sting and the warm wetness of blood welling up the surface and you winced.

“Do you think I carry hard pills on me wherever I go? You’ve got the wrong kind of doctor for that,” Your voice was far stronger than you were currently feeling. Noah had you backed into a corner of the hallway, one hand on your shoulder to keep you firmly in place facing the wall and the other reaching over your shoulder to threaten you with his shiv. “Noah, listen to me, I’ve known you since you got here. I know that you suffer from episodes of severe mania. You don’t take the medicine they give you anyway, so why are you doing this?”

A drop of the warden’s freshly spilled blood dropped from the tip of the shiv onto your shoulder and you shuddered. Noah’s grip on your shoulder tightened and he stepped closer, almost completely flush with you. “That’s what I want,” He sighed into your ear. Your hands balled into fists. “I’ve been watching you since I got here, good doctor. You and I both know that I’ve been a good boy since I’ve gotten here, and as a shrink, don’t you know you’re supposed to reward good behavior?” Noah’s tongue slid along the ridge of your ear and you whimpered. Noah misinterpreted this as pleasure rather than the fear it truly was.

“The medicine lowered my sex drive,” Noah’s breath was hot against the skin of your neck. “Was it really medicine for mania, good doctor? Or were you just trying to keep me from wanting you?” The hand that was previously on your shoulder drifted softly down to your lower back. “Or maybe you’re playing a game of eugenics,” his hand grabbed the flesh of your ass tightly and you cringed. “Oh yes doctor, I’ve been reading. I know what you people can do with medicine. But you have no idea what I can do to you.”

In your heart of hearts, you knew that struggling was not only what Noah craved in his victims but would most certainly make the situation worse. You knew that keeping him talking and groping was probably the safest option for you.

However, your sympathetic nervous system was kicking into overdrive, adrenaline building up in your mouth as a scream that you kept locked away behind tightly locked lips. You were shivering, eager to run or twist out of Noah’s grip. He had grown tired of the fabric preventing him from touching your skin. Obviously, he was more adept with women who wore loose skirts rather than suit pants as his wrist was going at your waist band at just the wrong angle. If you weren’t scared shitless, you’d find it pathetic. You wondered briefly if he would be as disgruntled to find that you wore comfortable granny panties rather than the lacy thongs he enjoyed on his victims. Adrenaline pumping, a small giggle escaped your lips at the thought.

“Cunt!” Noah exploded. “What the hell is there to laugh about when you have a knife to your throat?!”

“Not a damn thing.” Another male voice, soothing in its familiarity but new in its sharpness, sounded behind you. “Let her go, Pearson. You’re done having fun.”

Noah spun you around, the shiv pressing sharply against your jugular. “Oh Mr. Reid, is it?” You let out another giggle when you saw Dr. Reid’s mouth twitch with annoyance at being called “mister.” A totally inappropriate reaction, both his and yours. However, after years of being called ‘Mrs’ despite not being married and being an accomplished woman with a PhD, you would have done the same thing in any other situation.

Noah’s grip tightened to a point where you knew you were going to be bruised if you walked out of this situation. “See, Mr. Reid, the good doctor here is crazy like me. Giggling in the face of rape and staring down the barrel of a gun. She may have a good laugh if I just slit her throat,” Noah sliced very slowly against your throat. Things stopped being funny when you felt yourself bleeding.

“Stop!” Doctor Reid screamed.

“You’re right Noah,” You gasped, an idea taking root. “We’re just alike.” You slowly shifted so that you could see him out of the corner of your eye. “I do want you. You’re just my type, so big and intimidating.” Noah blinked, momentarily shocked to the point of loosening his grip on you. You turned to face him, gripping his waist and leaning your hole body to suckle at his neck, hoping that Doctor Reid would understand your point.

A shot rang out and blood splatter joined your own as Doctor Reid took your hint and shot Noah in his unprotected shoulder. You fell to the ground, unable to think, unable to breathe. You knew what you were doing. You knew that you had to give Doctor Reid a clear shot. But you were unprepared for the noise of the gunshot and the shock that came with watching a man be shot beside you. You faintly heard Doctor Reid shout for a medic over the ringing in your ears. He helped you stand and walked you out to an ambulance.

Shock, blood loss, your arm was grazed by Doctor Reid’s bullet as well. Someone wrapped a blanket around you and laid you on a stretcher before you closed your eyes.

-----

Your head was absolutely pounding. You opened your eyes just a sliver and winced at the sharp white light. Was this the afterlife? White light definitely checked out.

No, you knew this light. You knew this awful rubbing alcohol smell too. The sharp pains in your neck and the inside of your left elbow were new though.

“What-” you managed to rasp, your throat hoarse. You had no idea what you wanted to ask, let alone if there was anyone there to answer.

“Take it easy Y/N.”

Doc-tor R-reid?” You sounded out, unsure of the integrity of your vocal chords. You coughed, hoping it would clear your throat.

“It’s me. It’s Spencer. Relax, you’re in the hospital. Can you open your eyes?” His voice was as soft and certain as ever.

“Too bright.”

“Hold on,” you heard him get up, then a soft click. “Now try.”

You inched your eyes open again, relieved to see that the room was now dark. You blinked a few times and you saw his face, shadowed though it may be, just as right and safe and gentle as always. You smiled. “Thanks.”

“Of course. Can I get you anything?”

“Water?” Spencer grabbed a pale pink pitcher you were used to seeing beside your patients’ beds, further solidifying that you were back at work and not dead. He handed you a cup of water and you drank eagerly.

“Better?”

“Much,” You sighed, your throat feeling closer to normal.

“Well it might make you feel even better to know that my boss was impressed with your work in the prison today,” Spencer’s eyes took on a playful glint.

You groaned. “I’d like to go back to thinking I’m dead now, if you’d be so kind.”

“No really, wasn’t it you who said the BAU only talks down crisis situations, shoots a gun, then walks away?” Spencer was on the verge of laughter, you could hear it in his voice. “Well you got that crisis situation talked down, enabled me to shoot my gun, and then we walked away together. You’re basically my partner now.”

“Are you teasing me? I’m laying in a hospital bed. I was sexually assaulted. I was assaulted assaulted. I have a needle sticking out of my arm and a bandage around my neck. What makes you think this is the appropriate time to gauge my potential career shift?” You were mostly exaggerating, but it chilled you to think about where you were and what happened to you just hours prior.

Spencer quieted immediately. “It’s not appropriate, but I was nervous. I’m laughing about your potential career shift because I’m so glad that you’re still here and okay enough to discuss a potential career shift.” He ran a hand through his messy curls, frowning. “I knew it was you in there as soon as I saw your car in the parking lot. Because that’s just our luck, right? To always show up in the same place at the same time for reasons we both hate.

“But I was so proud of how you reacted. You read Pearson like an open book and you played him. You recognized your own weaknesses and strengths and you used them to stay alive.” The smirk returned. “Almost like a BAU agent.”

You scoffed, but grinned despite yourself. You understood what he meant about being happy to be alive, and after laughing during your own inappropriate moments, you could hardly begrudge him this. “You know Doctor Reid, I was almost touched there for a second.”

“Spencer.” He replied quietly.

“What?”

“You always call me Doctor Reid. Call me Spencer. We’re close enough at this point to be on a first name basis, I think.”

“Spencer then.” You relaxed back into your pillows, your cheeks warming slightly. “Nothing says ‘bonding’ like working together to shoot a serial rapist.”

“Hey, you know what, if you’d been a BAU agent this never would have happened.”

You laughed again. “How so?”

The smirk was back in full force. “You don’t have to wear high heels at the BAU.”

You threw a pillow at him.

[batsy-batsy-batsy-blog1]

Your Puddin’ Wants You [The Joker x Harley] A sequel

The very much requested and long time coming sequel to Where Are You Looney Tune? which you can find here (tumblr link) and here (ao3 link)

Authour’s note: This is my interpretation of how long it took him to find Harley. I apologize if you’ve been waiting for this and it’s kinda bad. Also I’m writing this while my mental state is not very good, let’s see how depressing this can get.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was not supposed to take this long. He was not not supposed to end up here.

The bedroom was not supposed to become an unbearable place to be. Causing destruction, causing chaos, hell even so much as shooting someone wasn’t supposed to become so lonely. Yet joking around with no one to admire your humour is a pretty sad business, and not that he’d ever admit it, that’s what the joker was, sad.

2 weeks into Harley’s disappearance, Joker was more mad than anything. He smashed his phone, going even more insane from all the unanswered texts. Finding her had been but on the back burner (maybe he was half hoping she’d turn up on her own) and his every waking moment, which was every moment, was dedicated to revenge. He blamed the world for the fact that his favourite play thing had gone missing, and he destroyed where ever he went. This wasn’t exactly unusual behaviour for the Joker, but this destruction came with less laughter and much more irreversible damage. Instead shooting up a building and taking what he wanted, or maybe what she wanted, he burned the place to the ground and watched with stone cold eyes. Instead playing with one victim, drawing out the death and torture as long as he could, he would shoot and stab, killing in quick succession, because no one was innocent, everyone had wronged him. And why bother put on a show when you had no one to cheer you on?

1 month into Harley’s disappearance, revenge became boring, and what with never being able to get his hands on the two big culprits, Gordon and the Bat, he began to feel like he was wasting his time. Harley still wasn’t home, and he realized she wasn’t coming on her own. 

At this point, being alone was actually starting to take a toll on the Joker, and it was becoming visible. The man always looked positively immaculate, and now, he seemed to have dulled. Smile less wide, teeth less blinding. He almost always looked bored when at his club, because no matter what dancer they had that night, she wasn’t Harley, and she was, in his mind, and absolute train wreck compared to her. They simply didn’t, couldn’t, and would never do “it” for him. Harley had a certain something, maybe it was the fact she was bat-shit crazy, totally unhinged-mad, he never could out his finger on it, but he knew no one could compare.

2 months in, he had no more time for his personal endeavours, Harley being gone made everything un-fun. His smile was becoming a rarity, he was aware of that fact, and he wasn’t okay with it. He needed her home, fast, for his sake. He missed having his own personal cheerleader, his missed hearing he laugh, without fail, at every single one of his jokes. Her laugh always mixed perfectly with the screams of his latest comedic bit. Now, nothing. He had always been a firm believer in the fact that silence was deafening, and her silence had him going blind too. 

Public appearances were rare for him, he sent his goons to do all the work now. Everyone, except Frost, were now doing 100% of his “work”. A group of more trusted men were now in charge of the club, and he only came in when, what he liked to called, business disputes, arose. On a regular day, getting a face to face with the Joker was a terrible honour, and if you were oh so unfortunate as to receive one, you best had learned to hold your tongue. Now a days, it was certain death sentence, for those who distracted him from getting his Harley back deserved nothing less than the most painful death.

The 3 month mark came with a tremendous turn of events, that, thankfully wouldn’t last long. Anyone present in the Joker’s penthouse that night, those left alive anyway, would recount it as the most petrifying moment of their lives. It started a goon being sent to Joker to tell him that his latest lead on Harley had turned up empty. This lead also happened to being the first one he had been able to find since she went missing. From Frost’s point of view the night went a little something like this:

He was downstairs, hovering near the foot of the grand staircase, anxious to hear the Joker’s reaction to this news. He heard a gun go off, and the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor, that much he had expected. What he didn’t expect was the crashing, and yelling that followed. His feet slammed on the steps as he dashed to find out was was going on. Closing in on the bedroom, he could hear wood splintering, and could it be? Laughter? Frost arrived in the doorway, and he was shocked.

“Bitch, stupid fucking bitch...” Joker was muttering between wild-eyed laughter that seemed to be leaking how of him without him wanting to. Yes, laughter was an involuntary reflex, but this looked uncontrollable, and Frost could tell he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t.

The bedroom itself was in the process of being destroyed. The large wardrobe had been tipped on top of the body, it had a large pool of blood spreading from beneath it that gave the illusion the wardrobe was bleeding. His desk looked as if it had been picked up, and thrown against the wall, which Frost had no doubt he’d done, because now Joker was using one of the legs to smash the mirror of Harley’s vanity. The same vanity that held all of her makeup and the countless pieces of jewelry the Joker had acquired for her, the same vanity he had refuse to touch until she came back. This vanity was not covered in glass, but only for a moment, because not even a second after he broke the mirror, he threw the desk leg aside, and swept everything from it’s surface, smashing what could be smashed.

“She didn’t disappear, no no no, that little bitch left me...”

He jumped onto the bed, slamming the pillows into the walls until feather flew from them, and they depleted to nothing but fabric. He wasn’t done there, as he fell to his knees, digging his boney fingers into the satin sheets, and pulling until they tore. He put one piece in his mouth and grabbed the other with both ends, splitting it clean into.

“She never appreciated anything, did she Frosty old boy?”

Frost hadn’t even realized the Joker knew he was there.

“Nothing, that bitch, leaves me, turns me into this, I’m gonna kill her” More laughter “I’m going to fucking kill her Frost.”

After this announcement, he destroyed everything Harley owned, burned her clothes, broke her shoes, smashed her guns, snapped her knives. Then he killed. To list date, Frost swears it was the biggest massacre the Joker ever went on. The GCPD is still finding corpses from that night.

Before moving onto the city, the Joker killed every last goon he could find in his penthouse, a lucky few hid well enough to survive, then there was Frost, who was merely ignored, he felt so honoured.

Mr. J returned home with the sunrise. No one quite know what happened that night, there are few witnesses, and even those, only caught a glimpse of him, maybe a flash of green hair, a blink of he purple suit. The only things that are for certain that night is countless people died, 6 buildings crumbled to the ground, 3 burned down, and the Joker returned broken, bloody, and with a black sharpie smile drawn around him mouth.

Frost was the only one left in the penthouse, and the Joker looked him dead in the eye and whispered;

“Harley never learns of this,”

As he stumbled up the stairs, Frost could have sworn he heard him say, “Harley would kill me if she found out.”

As more months flew by, the bedroom had been completely shut up, Joker refused to set foot inside, and chained the door shut with an, albeit, over-dramatic chain.

Joker had taken to spending his time in a previously empty room, one of the many he had no purpose for. It had started with him taking his nightly drinks in there, sitting in the middle of the floor. Maybe he’d leave a knife or gun behind, the room was actually quite a mess of empty bottles and mismatched weaponry for a while. However, one day, the knives had been arranged into a neat circle, then the guns around them, he added his empty liquor bottles as well, then he started requesting things, the oddest of things. Obviously not from Frost, Frost had been ordered not to speak to him unless in was news of Harley. But his other goons, new ones he��d brought in, he sent them to fetch him more weapons, then laptops, 3 dozen roses, a piano at one point, but everyone heard him destroy it. The requests became weirder and more frequent, odd knickknacks, stacks of cash, full bottles of various alcohols he never drank from, tablets, iPads, a ridiculous amount of specifically joker and queen playing cards, even baby’s footie pyjamas, but no one was certain of where those came from, the list goes on. All of this gradually building up into his very own, neat and tidy, circle of insanity. And the second the Joker, King of Chaos, starts trying to create order, you know something’s up.

After the 8 month mark he never left that room, he delegated all the things he once loved doing, killing, mind games, all of it, put on the shoulders of his men, because the Joker may not have been himself anymore, but even he knew the importance of keeping up appearances.

9 months, and he was never not drunk. He had slowly been replacing all of Harley’s things he had destroyed, adding a mannequin into his room wearing one of his favourite jester costume of her’s. The first outfit he ever gotten her, you can’t beat a classic. Some of the iPads and tablets now displayed her face twenty four/seven.

Maybe this looks a bit sweet from the outside, but don’t be fooled, this man was broken. A shell of the grand, dramatic, show-boating, attention-seeking person he was, and to see him like this, well, it would have made the GCPD throw a party, I’ll put it like that.

You see, during these months, crime had gone way down, down for Gotham anyway, it still had some of the highest rates in the country. Without the Joker, other villains and maniacs viewed it as their opportunity, their 15 minutes of fame, but without trying to catch the Joker tying up all their time, the police had could actually crack down on everyone else, but no one could top him. He was Gotham’s most wanted, no one could compare.

Order had to be restored, Frost knew this, the mob bosses couldn’t think they ran the city again, all hell would break loose, and the perfect pecking order the Joker had created in Gotham’s underground would crumble.

Frost had been putting his full force into trying to locate Harley, he had never expected it take this long, it was as if they had erased her from society. Reduced her existence to nothing but a single mug shot circulating the air waves to serve as a warning, and a reminder the police could actually do something right. He new better, she wasn’t merely gone, Harley Quinn would never allow herself to be gone, someone knew something, and Frost was going to find it. It was, after all, all on him now, as Joker was too busy drowning his sorrows and slaughtering his liver to search anymore.

At exactly the one year mark, Frost found his final puzzle piece, a name. Grigges, first or last name he wasn’t sure, although, that would be a hell of a first name, it was all he needed.

This puzzle piece also served as a key, unlocking the ruthless killer we all know as the Joker. When he heard this, the car was brought around, and he emerged from his cave as bright and shiny as ever. A real smile on his lips instead of the one he fashioned for himself. Hair slicked back once again, clothes changed for the first time in weeks, and miraculously, he had managed to rid himself of the pungent stench of alcohol.

“Let’s play Frosty!”