It is deeply, deeply beneficial to TERFs if the only characteristic of TERF ideology you will recognize as wrong, harmful, or problematic is “they hate trans women”.
TERF ideology is an expansive network of extremely toxic ideas, and the more of them we accept and normalize, the easier it becomes for them to fly under the radar and recruit new TERFs. The closer they get to turning the tide against all trans people, trans women included.
Case in point: In 2014-2015, I fell headlong into radical feminism. I did not know it was called radical feminism at the time, but I also didn’t know what was wrong with radical feminism in the first place. I didn’t see a problem with it.
I was a year deep into this shit when people I had been following, listening to, and looking up to finally said they didn’t think trans women were women. It was only then that I unfollowed those people, specifically; but I continued to follow other TERFs-who-didn’t-say-they-were-TERFs. I continued ingesting and spreading their ideas- for yearsafter.
If TERFs “only target trans women” and “only want trans women gone”, if that’s the one and only problem with their ideology and if that’s the only way we’ll define them, we will inevitably miss a vast majority of the quiet beliefs that support their much louder hatred of trans women.
As another example: the trans community stood relatively united when TERFs and conservatives targeted our right to use the correct restroom, citing the “dangers” of trans women sharing space with cis women. But when they began targeting Lost Little Girls and Confused Lesbians and trotting detransitioners out to raise a panic about trans men, virtually the only people speaking up about it were other transmascs. Now we see a rash of anti-trans healthcare bills being passed in the US, and they’re hurting every single one of us.
When you refuse to call a TERF a TERF just because they didn’t specifically say they hate trans women, when you refuse to think critically about a TERF belief just because it’s not directly related to trans women, you are actively helping TERFs spread their influence and build credibility.
what is some TERF ideology we should be on the look out for?
This isn’t comprehensive, but I’ll do my best.
TERFs are, first and foremost, radical feminists. Radical feminism is essentially second-wave feminism without the intersectionality brought in by third-wave feminism. It believes that patriarchy is at fault for the oppression of women, but sees this in a very strict, binary way: women are the oppressed, and men are the oppressors.
TERFs use this to justify their specific brand of transphobia. This idea, among others, is essential in supporting that transphobia.
I’ll try to outline some of those ideas, and some of the logical thruoughlines they use:
Women are uniquely oppressed, and always in danger. Womanhood- or the experience of being a woman- is defined by oppression, misogyny, and Being In Danger.
Women are particularly in danger in the presence of, and in relationships with, men. Spaces that exclude men are essential to preserving the safety of women.
Socialization: men are raised to support patriarchy, while women are raised to be subjugated by it. Men have no motive to unlearn these lessons, so all men are inherently more corrupted by these lessons than women.
Relationships with men are therefore inherently (more likely to be) abusive, and relationships with women are inherently safe(er).
Sex, in particular, is more often exploitative than not. Only some kinds of sex are not exploitative. Many kinds of sex that we think are consensual, or that people say are consensual, are either rape or proto-rape.
Exchanging money for sex is inherently rape/exploitation/non-consensual in some way.
As women who deny men access to them, lesbians are The Most Oppressed and also The Most Endangered. They must be protected at all costs.
Because so many women have been raped by men with penises, both men and penises are inherently traumatic to A Lot Of Women.
Many lesbians will naturally have an aversion to relationships with trans women because of this. Trans women who argue against this “genital preference” are potential rapists trying to infiltrate lesbian spaces to hurt and take advantage of women.
Men will always try to invade “women’s spaces” to take advantage of women, endanger them, and strip away their resources both for personal gain/pleasure, and in service of upholding the patriarchy.
If we allow men to say they are women, they will invade those spaces and hurt “real” women. Men who say they are women are dangerous, and must be excluded and punished.
Men may try to obfuscate labels and terminology to “define women out of existence” or otherwise cause confusion, which they can manipulate to further their infiltration.
Women are all miserable with their bodies, cursed with the pressure to reproduce and have sex with men.
Women are all miserable with their genders, forced as they are to ensure the overwhelming and constant suffering that is patriarchy.
Women will attempt to escape this misery and pressure by “becoming men”. This is cowardly, but understandable; a tragic but inevitable result of patriarchy. These women must be saved.
Some women who try to escape patriarchy are doing it out of self-interest; they are betraying women by becoming men, and contributing to their oppression. These women must be punished.
Bio-essentialism: women are oppressed specifically because of their bodies and ability to reproduce. This is an inherent and defining part of womanhood. Nobody can claim womanhood without this experience, everyone who has had this experience is a woman.
Women’s bodies are all beautiful and perfect because they are women’s bodies. If the womanliness of them is tampered with, they become less valuable. Men’s bodies are gross and undesirable symbols of patriarchy.
Testosterone makes people violent, aggressive, irrational, and angry. Estrogen makes people calm, kind, and happy.
Men can never understand women’s bodies as well as other women do.
People can be attracted to other people on the basis of “sex” alone. This is inherent, immutable, and unquestionable.
Men are sexual animals who inherently and unavoidably find lots of bad things sexually arousing. Because “youth” is attractive, many men find young girls and children attractive, and will try to take advantage of them. Misogynistic control/power over women, hurting women, and even rape are also inherently sexually appealing to men.
“Gender” is meaningless; it’s founded in misogynistic stereotypes about men and women, and when you remove the stereotypes, there’s nothing left at all. Only binary “sex” is real, because that’s what patriarchy (and biology) is based on.
Manhood is itself a toxic, oppressive, inherently corrupting concept. Anyone who participates in manhood is corrupt and immoral; who would choose to be the oppressor?
Masculinity is defined only by hating women, having power, and being aggressive, violent, and controlling (etc.)
Patriarchy doesn’t just target women, but femininity as a whole, for its association with women.
Patriarchy doesn’t just reward men, but masculinity, as it rejects femininity. People who reject femininity and embrace masculinity are rewarded by the patriarchy.
Some of these ideas are contradictory, but they lead to the same conclusions. Some of them lead to similar conclusions, many of which take very little further nudging to push into more dogmatic ideas.
This is exactly why we need to understand all of these paths into TERF ideology- and more.
In fact, the vast majority of the points on this list- particularly the beginnings of their logic- can be very easily swallowed while still holding that trans women are women, and trans men are men.
That’s what TIRFs (trans-inclusive radical feminists) are, and they’re still incredibly dangerous. TIRF ideology normalizes these points, making it far easier for TERFs to recruit; even if TIRFs themselves try to be aggressively anti-TERF.
Again, this isn’t comprehensive, and it would take a long time and a lot of words to cover every flaw and danger in every line of reasoning here.
But remember how these things work; even if some of them begin with a grain of truth, even if some of them are true- especially if you define the words they contain differently- be wary of them.
It’s important to note how sex-negative they can be, and how in some circles this leads to a belief that being a lesbian is the only way one can liberate oneself from the abuse of men. They see sexual orientation as a choice to be made for one’s safety, or a political act–not something based on genuine attraction. They also sometimes push the idea of the “gold-star lesbian”–that is, a lesbian who’s never been with a man–as the ideal. If you’re a bisexual? Disgusting, don’t interact.
It’s… sadly common to see on dating sites.
radical feminism is almost indistinguishable from evangelical conservatism. both camps believe that heterosexual sex is a violent consumption (and an immoral corruption) of women’s pure bodies. they believe that womanhood is inextricably centered around the uterus. they believe that men are basically ravenous violent sex-obsessed beasts who need to be restrained by the morality of good women. they believe that your sex at birth defines your character for the rest of your life, and that male and female are completely different, oppositional states of being. they believe that limiting young people’s access to information will keep them safer than giving them a full education and letting them make their own fully informed choices. they believe it’s better–safer and more virtuous–to be an innocent victim than an active agent. they both believe that suffering through all of this sanctifieswomen and proves that they’re more noble and virtuous than men. and, of course, the more suffering a woman endures, the more noble it must have made her.
the only difference is that radical feminists express their anger over these terrible beliefs and evangelical conservatives repress it.
and lot of these beliefs are familiar, and comfortable, to a lot of people who aren’t even radfems or conservatives. they pervade western thought already. it’s a framework of understanding sexism that resonates with a lot of our lived experiences. and going from acceptance of a terrible system to righteous anger at that terrible system can be an important and cathartic stage for victims of that system! but the next step is to reject the validity of that system, which radfems do not.
It’s implied but not explicitly stated above that BDSM–all BDSM no matter how well negotiated–counts as “rape” in this type of ideology.
Other highlights: All rape fantasies are inherently sick and dangerous. Pornography is inherently unhealthy and people who say they can separate porn from real life are suspect. “Informed consent” is fake: people are inherently harmed by BDSM/weird fantasies/porn/whatever, and saying yes to those things is just a sign that the person is damaged, not a valid conscious choice.
In a fandom context, the above stuff looks like this:
AFABs who write m/m instead of focusing on female characters are self-hating women who are betraying their sisters.
It is the duty of AFABs to write f/f in particular.
Being into m/m if you aren’t a cis man is “fetishization”.
Everyone could just choose to write f/f if they were being politically good. Saying you’re “just not into” something is an excuse rather than a valid description of how desire and inspiration work.
“Because it makes me horny” is never a valid reason for fic.
F/F is purer and better and softer than any other content.
All kinky fic is furthering rape culture.
Kinky f/f is especially heinous and must be stamped out.
The fact that you have to click on “gross” AO3 works to see them doesn’t matter because their very existence is damaging to people.
If you disagree, it’s because you’re a broken, deluded victim engaging in self harm.
Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?
A lot of fandom wank is explicitlyandovertly pushing radfem garbage and calling that progressive. Yes, you, trans teenagers of tumblr. No matter how many times you reaffirm that you hate TERFs.
When you say “X is bad except for cope-shipping”…
When you demand that hobbyist women write about female characters…
When you say that people are clearly predators or going to become predators because of their Bad fic content…
You are helping TERFs.
…. Huh. I hadn’t previously considered the possibility of connecting the concept of political lesbianism to the way we talk about f/f, but now you suggest it…. Hm.
And just as political lesbians hurt wlw who are trying to find each other by confusing the signals and blocking the ability to find people who are genuinely interested in one another for their own sake….
huh.
Gotta chew on that some, I think.
for FUCKS sake can a single post on this site not derail onto fandom context????
No.
Fandom is a hotbed of radfem recruiting.
Half the people on this site are bathing in this shit within a specifically fandom context and then taking it with them to fuck up other communities after.
The first chapter and I’m already in tears. I wasn’t expecting this type of story from ShounenJump. Takopi’s Original Sin, is available on Manga+ App with 16 chapters this drama ended a few weeks ago.
Synopsis: Takopii travels from his home of Happy Planet to spread happiness across Earth, but meets the unsmiling Shizuka upon landing. Her friends at school and home life seem to be the source of her somber expression—and the pure-hearted Takopii is determined to change things for the better! But what truths await him when the curtains rise in this shocking drama?!
⚠️Trigger warning, is a heavy sensitive content. Worth reading but be cautious!
“I Found a Letter From My Stalker” Written by MinisterOfOwls
ESTIMATED READING TIME — 12 MINUTES I found this note, nailed onto a tree on my front lawn. I really don’t know how to describe it. I’ll just let you read it yourself.
[Note start]
I saw you today. It was your birthday. You didn’t see me, you hardly ever do these days.
Your skin looked so nice and healthy, and your eyes, they were the most beautiful I’d ever seen them.
You’ve grown so much. I remember how you different used to look when you were younger.
I remember the day I first met you.
It was four years ago. I was sitting on my desk, head down, listening to the teacher rattling off names for attendance. The teacher called out a name I didn’t recognize, and a stranger’s voice answered behind me. Was there a new student?
The teacher didn’t pause for a second, just continued calling out name after name. I turned my head to where the voice had come from.
I saw you, a pale thing, so thin, your eyes so red, at a seat that should have been empty.
I saw the fireflies flying around you, flickering. Dozens of them, never straying far from you.
I saw them going through you, and coming out through your skin, like you were a mist to them. Can you believe I thought you were a ghost?
No one else seemed to acknowledge the new stranger sitting at the back of the class. Class after class, hour after hour passed as I waited for something to happen. For someone to notice you, for you to leave, for you to let out a ghoulish scream and claw at me like in the horror story I was certain I was in. But nothing happened.
Teachers came and went. My classmates laughed and slept, and you just sat there.
The bell rung for recess. The other kids ran to their mundanities for the day, leaving me and you together in the empty classroom. You stood up and pulled a chair from the desk next to you, making it face your desk. You turned your head to me and spoke
“Well, you’re slow today. Come on. Ask me your questions.”
I don’t know why I didn’t run away screaming at that moment. Probably would have turned out better for me in the long run, but let’s not speculate.
I guess, at that point in my life , I was pretty bloody lonely. I figured there was only a 50-50 chance you’d eat me and the other 50 was that someone wanted to talk with me. Kid priorities don’t make sense to me either these days.
So I went along with the flow. I walked over to your desk, sat down on the chair you pulled for me, and asked my question. What were you?
You told me you didn’t know.
You said that once you were a child, just like me, with parents and friends. You used to go to the same schools as me.
Then, one day, one ordinary day, when you were ten, you just woke up and you were like this, covered in fireflies and no one could remember you the moment they concentrated on anything else. No one, not even your parents.
You told me of how I’d notice you, every day. How I’d think of you until recess every day.
How I’d come to you every day. How we would talk, every day. How we would meet for the first time, every day, for the last three years.
About how I’d forget the instant I walked out of the room.
How everyone would forget you. How the fireflies would make them. How for the last three years, you’d been alone.
Your story was very hard to believe. So I didn’t. I asked what reality prank show I was on. You looked, well, unimpressed, and asked me to continue telling my story.
I was caught off guard by the non sequitur. You said last time I was here, I was telling you a story, a horror story about a haunted house.
As you detailed the story, goosebumps prickled my skin. It was a story I’d been making up in my head. A story I hadn’t told anyone yet.
At that moment, a million reactions were open to me, all simultaneously adequate and inadequate . But the only thing that seemed proper was to finish the story for you. So I did.
Halfway through, you interrupted me to ask if my mother had recovered from her sickness yet. I had to shake my head, a bit ashamed at the fact that I shared this private matter to a stranger. The story ended a few minutes before recess.
My next class was in another room.
You told me to go. Your steadiness took me back. You seemed so… accepting of your fate. Like you’d already gotten used to the idea of being forgotten forever.
I was a kid back then. I wasn’t a particularly smart kid, and I was probably on the onset of a crush. So you can excuse what I did next as an example of my childhood stupidity.
I grabbed my scissors, pressed it against my arm’s skin, and dug in. As it drew blood, I pushed it forwards, till the cut forms the shape I wanted.
Letter by letter, I carved your name onto my arm.
Just so you up know, I don’t regret that. Don’t get me wrong, kid power might have made me do it, but it sure as hell didn’t make the pain go away. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life.
But even then as a kid, I thought what was happening to you was unfair.
I remember how your eyes looked when you saw that. The confusion. How strange it was for you, that anyone would want to remember. I remember that look so clearly.
When I woke up the next day and saw your name on my arm, I remembered you. I didn’t forget.
That day, for the first time, we had a conversation that wasn’t so one-sided.
You said no one had ever done anything like that before and suggested I might have a mental illness . I won’t deny it, that drew a little blood. As we talked, a creeping thought came into my head: Did you prefer it when I didn’t remember?
That night, I was sitting up on my bed, staring at your name on my arm, wondering if I should cover it up so I couldn’t see it and give you back your privacy, when I heard a crash.
I looked up to see my bedroom window shattered and a dirty rock on my floor. I looked out of the cracked window, to see a dark figure on my lawn.
You were outside yelling, about how we should hang out.
It took me a while to get used to how bad you were at talking to people. Years without practice, made you a quite a bit rusty.
That was all right. We had a lot of time.
For the next two years, we spent the most of our free time together. Most of the time, we talked. You’d tell me an aspect of your life and how you lived.
You still stayed in your old house. Your parents never noticed the food gone missing, never noticed the extra room, and you’d stolen the extra keys.
One night, I confided in you, that I was beginning to think you were a part of my imagination, Fight Club style. After all, what could you do to me that I couldn’t do to myself?
You spent the next month or so trying to leave bite marks on my ear or neck, to prove a point. I still have some on my ear, so I guess you did.
Looking back, I could see the warning signs even then. Your skin seemed to get worse and worse, paler and paler, and you’d rub your eyes raw.
It was in winter we had our wakeup call.
The morning began like any other. I woke up, brushed my teeth, and started searching for clothes to wear. It was a winter morning, and my room was dark, so I didn’t see your name on my arm.
The cold sent shivers through my body, and pulled out a long sleeve jacket. A small bell rang in my head. Don’t you usually roll your sleeves up? Yeah, and why did I? That was annoying.
I finished tidying up and headed to school. On the school bus, I felt oddly content, like something I’d been worrying about had just… disappeared.
I walked up the school stairs, down the hall, through my class door, and sat down on my desk. The same feeling of a burden forgotten hounded my mind. What was I forgetting?
When recess came, I started came, I just sat at my desk, while my class mates ran out. It felt like a ritual , but I didn’t know what for. I was contemplating just walking out to join them, when I heard it.
It was something small in the wind, like a whisper, but it came over and over, incessant. It sounded like my name. I knew this was strange, that this was worth my attention, but I felt oddly calm. Everything would be alright, everything would be fine, just ignore it.
I sat there on my desk, my mind a war zone between two conflicting, contradictory, voices, when I felt a force tugging on my sleeve. The moment I noticed this, my jacket sleeve tore open. I saw your name on my arm, and then your hand that had ripped my jacket open.
You’d been yelling at me for over 20 minutes.
I think that was the moment we realized how on edge our friendship really was. One accident away from complete erasure.
We spent the most of the next year in the town library together, trying to find out what the fireflies were.
It wasn’t really a problem for me. Because of my mother’s treatment, my family couldn’t afford to go on any trips, and our house didn’t have heating anymore, so I was happy to spend my time with you.
Trying to find information was a puzzle in and of itself. After all, how would I read about people I couldn’t remember and how would you find out who was special when no one could even remember enough about them to record them?
We found out old family trees and records. Individually, we’d write down the name of everyone in the book on two lists and then we would compare. The names I hadn’t remembered to write down, but you had, would become the focus. They were the names who were under the curse of the fireflies.
We compiled a list of “suspicious” books. Books we though could help us, because they were written by or were about the people we were searching for.
I’d read the books, with the list of names side by side, reading it again for every page of the book. You’d sure the internet on the library computers , for articles about the people.
Our search would lead us to the first glimpse we got of what was really happening to you.
It was late at night when you found the picture. I was a bit drowsy at that time, and almost about to nod off when I heard a sharp intake of breath. I turned to see you standing up, pointing at the screen.
I didn’t see anything. Well, anything noteworthy. On the screen was a picture of a clearing somewhere in the woods
You held up your piece of paper where you’d marked out two names.
Susie Applebee-Reagan, 13
Terry Applebee-Reagan, 12
Siblings
For a moment, I saw the paper and the screen side by side.
Side by side.
And then I saw them.
Two figures, emerging from the woods, towards the camera. They were almost humanoid, but all five limbs stretched to nightmarish proportions. Blank white skin, pure albino, that looked more like tree bark than anything on a mammal. A cloud of fireflies surrounded the duo.
The shorter one looked emaciated. I could see the rib cages around which their… their eyes! God, their eyes! So small, so red.
The longer one with their white hair, didn’t look alive anymore. They were just skin wrapped around skeletons. Their empty eye sockets had fireflies swarming out of them. Both reaching for the camera man.
I looked at the article surrounding the picture. It was a blog post by hiker, twenty years after the two kids had been written about last. The picture was a mystery to the camera man as well. He’d been wanting to go to the woods pictured for a while now, but he never actually remembered going there. The picture had just appeared in his camera one day, out the blue.
For a moment, I looked at your face. Your thin pale face, with those red veined eyes. Would that be you when my scar faded? Just a walking horror I’d glimpse, then forget?
We worked through our reading list at a much faster pace starting from that moment.
Maybe we should’ve gone slower. At least every book, every website we’d left untouched promised hope. The books we finished and tossed aside promised nothing but the clearing in the woods as your future.
And we tossed aside a lot of books.
I believe I tore through three fourths of my reading list before I stumbled across the journal. Oh God, that horrible, horrible journal.
The journal used to belong to a mental patient, named Joey, who claimed to be a serial killer. He was locked up in an asylum when the police discovered his supposed victims never existed. He was ‘diagnosed’ with a need for attention, and shoved away.
They should have electrocuted him. They should have fried him until his flesh melted and his hair burned.
In the journal, he talked about how he carried out his killings. He knew things, bizarre and disturbing things no one else knew. He knew of strange creatures that lived in the woods. Of them, his favorite were the fireflies.
I’m not going to tell you how he summoned these things. I trust you, I trust you more than anyone, but a thing like this belongs to the ground more than it ever will to the human mind. It’s sufficient enough to know that, these things were not fireflies.
Joey would start his ritual by taking a kid. Any kid, anyone he’d liked. He could take them at any time, the dead of night in their own homes, or in broad daylight on their front yards.
It didn’t matter if he was seen. He’d take them to his house and drag them to a room. Usually, an Amber Alert came up around now. He didn’t care. Like I said, it wouldn’t matter soon.
He’d drag them to a special room in his house. Here the fireflies would come and latch onto them. Now, nobody was searching for the kids. Not the police, not the parents. Nobody.
From then on, he could do whatever he wanted to the kid. He’d get bored of them after a day or two, after the child had broken. And then the kid would go too. Hacksaw, kitchen knife, anything would work.
He detailed a large pit of bodies he kept in the woods, swarming with the bugs.
I guess he got bored of that too one day, so one day he went right to the police station and turned himself in. Not of guilt, no, no, no. He just wanted someone to know about the stuff he was doing. Sick bastard.
Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. He never stopped killing kids. The asylum doors didn’t stop him from doing what he liked. It just made him improvise.
He made a new way. He modified the flies, so they could survive without a host, just in a dormant state. When a child (he specified the age) would approach the swarm, it would latch on and begin its effect. Over the years, the child would warp horribly into the things we saw in the woods.
I wish I could hate him in peace. I wish I could say the world owed him nothing. But that wouldn’t be true. He detailed a way out. On the final page, was an exact explanation on how to get rid of the fireflies.
You must have seen something in my face, at that moment you asked if had I found anything.
I said no and closed the book.
A few minutes later, you shut down the computer. You picked up the last book and went through it yourself. When you reached the end cover, you tossed it aside.
I asked what we should do now.
You said it was alright. I could go home. We’d talk about it in the morning.
I stood up and walked past the shelves of books. I headed for the library entrance, but stopped right outside the door and waited. I waited until I heard the sniffling sounds.
I sneaked back to our table, where you were quietly sobbing.
You had your head in your hands. I sat back down, as you raised your eyes to me.
You said you wished you’d never met me. How happy you were when you had nothing to lose. How I ruined your life.
You’d never really gotten better at talking to people. That was the worst love confession I’d ever heard.
I remember how we kissed that night. I remember your hands gripping my hair. I remember that kiss.
I wish it could’ve been just a kiss.
I’m sorry I ruined that moment. When my arms were around you, I was close enough to steal a firefly without you noticing.
I remember holding the fireflies in my hand. I remember how it struggled, until it didn’t. Until it was a part of me.
The fireflies shifted. They came over me, and left you.
I remember the familiar look in your eyes. The confusion. I never wanted to see that confusion in your eyes again. You deserved to be loved and you deserved to know that.
I wasn’t really living anyway.
You reached for me. I pulled away, as the last lights of recognition faded from your eyes. And then you were just staring at a stranger, walking away into a crowd of strangers.
That was a year ago.
You’ve gotten so much better since then. You have so many friends now. So many people at your birthday party. You also look so much healthier. I haven’t been as fortunate.
My skin’s gotten a lot paler, and my eyes hurt all the time now. I couldn’t go to school like you did all those years. I haven’t wasted my time though. I found Joey’s pit.
The bodies, there were so many bodies. There’s a grave for those children now.
Without me, my mom could afford her surgery. She looked so happy. Just yesterday, I saw her playing with my baby brother.
I saw you crying yesterday. You were with your friends, laughing. For a brief moment, your eyes met mine, and then, they were so wet.
I think I’m going away. For good I think. You’re not going to be happy if I stick around.
I’m so happy I met you, even if you don’t remember me.
[Note end]
Sometimes I go through depressive episodes. I feel so lonely, even with my friends. I don’t know what’s going through my head during these times, and sometimes I’d end up in a bath tub, a knife in my hands and my wrists bleeding.
Up till now, I thought I was cutting my wrists. I wasn’t. The cuts… they’re letters.
omg , @suntosirius,@youaremydesign! I loved your series, Boy! It’s given me the strength to draw young Will! I noticed that it’s incomplete and since im an absolute whore for the series im very excited to see where it’s going!!!! Thank you for writing such a wonderful fic.
omg look at this ART, THIS IS GORGEOUS!! Thank you so so so much TT_TT
author’s note: thank you for the responses to my first fanfic on this tumblr!! i don’t really have a schedule for when I write or specific characters who i write for at the moment, i just thought i could use this whole quarantine thing as a time to be productive:))
this fic is named after a lana del rey song
the dark knight, except you are the second person the joker captures in order to get batman to reveal his identity. little does he know, you’re as broken as he is. (ledger!joker x reader)
trigger warning: psychological trauma, mentions of violence, mentions of mental illness, reader experiences panic attacks
If he’s a serial killer, then what’s the worst
That could happen to a girl who’s already hurt?
I’m already hurt
The room is damp and cold, with no source of light. The smell of rotting flesh suffocates your air.
You’ve been here for hours now.
When you’d first woken up, groggy from the effects of some drug, you’d begun to hyperventilate in the pitch black, the ropes that bound you pressing down tightly on your organs and making it even more difficult to breathe.
This had continued on for longer than it normally would. Every time you managed to drag in enough air to fill your lungs, thoughts that this was more than a kidnapping by those who wanted money or sex flashed through your mind in garish colours of green and purple, and the oxygen was ripped from your body once again.
Eventually your breathing had steadied, and now here you sit, two hours later, still pulling on your ropes and trying desperately to think of a way out.
The sudden shove of what must be the door knocks the breath that you’ve spent so long obtaining out of you, and the harsh glare of electric lights followed by the sight of a tall, stooped figure in a purple suit make you scream.
How funny that just a few days ago, you were watching and pitying the police officer in the exact same position that you are now in safely from your bedroom, if unhappily at least safely, and at least safely from others, if not from yourself.
Your gasping cries echoe about the room, grating on the peeling walls and the intruder’s ears and the huge hunks of bloody red meat hanging from hooks in the corners -
‘Shh, darling, shh.’
And the Joker is in front of you, and you take in the matted green hair and the yellow teeth and the face plastered in white greasepaint and the bright red lips and the two huge scars curving up from the corners of his mouth, forming a grisly smile. He paws at your face with a gloved hand, the action quick and sharp and devoid of tenderness.
He wants you to shut up.
Your terror overrules your hatred and you stop screaming, having to come up for little gasps of air every few seconds.
’Oh, smartgirl.’
His voice sounds exactly like it did in the clips they showed on the TV; the Joker speaks in snarls, with a wet smack of the lips at the end of each sentence. He is still close to you. You can smell sweat, leather, and blood.
‘I presume you know why you’re here,doll.’
There is no point in lying: you raise your trembling head, and nod.
'And Ipresume… you have seen my previous recording, yes?’
Another nod.
'ANSWER ME!’
His bark makes you jump, and sends chills trickling down your spine like cold water. You want to curl up in a ball and die out of sheer terror, but you force your dry mouth to open, unsticking your lips bit by bit, and…
'yes.’
The Joker leers. He puts his large hands on your shaking thighs and pushes himself down into a kneeling position, red lips grinning up at you.
He is like a cat, toying with its prey to make it taste sweeter.
'And what, ah, did I say, was the purpose…’ the intruder’s fingers trace small circles on your skin, 'of my video?’
You know the purpose, but you don’t want to say it, can’t say it, because if you said it, you’d be admitting the truth to yourself, and even after everything you’ve been through, you don’t want to die.
As each second of silence passes each thigh circle becomes bigger, and the Joker’s long nails dig deeper into soft skin, and tiny red roses of blood begin to bloom. You feel the urge to let him continue: to let him scratch his way down to bone and marrow and eventually to the chair you’re trapped in, while you suffer in proud, noble silence.
But when the Joker sighs irritatedly and pulls out a knife from his boot, you decide you are a coward.
'You - you are using me - to try - to try to - to try to get Batman to reveal who - who he really is.’
'Full marks, doll… and you are a pretty doll, aren’t you? Wanna know why I chose you for this, ehem, operation?’
Silence.
'Course you do. Now. It seems as though our, hehe, brave,Batman, did not have much sympathy for the poor police officer who was sitting exactly where you are now…’
See, this is how crazy Batman’s made Gotham…
'Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting exactly where you are now! Geddit?’
The Joker laughs a maniacal laugh, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end.
'So, in order to persuade both Batman and the goodcitizens of Gotham to reveal his identity, I have chosen someone younger, prettier, more, ah, innocent,thanour dear police officer, to fill their hearts with empathy and the urgent desire to act -
Namely, you.’
Blood pounds in your ears. You’ve forgotten entirely about controlling your breathing - but what is the point, when you are going to die?
'You’re terrified, doll.’
The Joker’s tongue wets his bottom lip.
In a quick thrust he pushes himself off the ground so he is towering above you once again. The knife spins in the air before he catches it with nimble fingers. Footsteps sound on the floor, and the Clown begins to pace the room.
'Before I start to make my little films, however, I like to play a few games.Justto get my actorsinto the right mood, you see.’
You can’t breathe, please, god, someone, help, because you can’t breathe…
the battle of hogwarts, except draco malfoy stands up to voldemort in the courtyard scene. (draco x reader) beware: big angst
trigger warning: violence, gore, major character death
‘And now is the time to declare yourself. Come forward and join us.’
A pause. Two words, spat out with venom into the cold morning air.
‘Or die.’
Draco fixes his gaze on the rubble before him as Voldemort’s serpent eyes pan the crowd. His body swims with the exhaustion of sleepless nights, while his mind is forced to stay alert to the danger that he is once again in. He doesn’t want to fight anymore.
‘Draco.’ His father’s rasp breaks the heavy silence. Heads turn to stare accusingly at him, and Draco feels a small flutter of hope that is replaced by a heavy weight in his chest as he realises the head he most longs to see is not there.
What if you’re dead?
He doesn’t want to think about it.
He would never forgive himself.
‘Draco.’ His father, again, this time more desperate. More heads turn to look, none of them yours.
Draco finally dares look up, his sight travelling past the cloaked figure that has haunted him for the past few years and landing on his father. Lucius Malfoy, with his bloodshot eyes, dishevelled robes and straggly blonde hair, is a sad imitation of his former self.
Draco hates him.
He hates Voldemort too, and his stupid movement. He doesn’t want to go.
But he is terrified, afraid of what he knows Voldemort is capable of, afraid of what he has seen in those long grisly days at Malfoy Manor. He sees the green light hitting Professor Snape’s colleague square in the chest and her falling with a sullen thud onto the wood. He sees the snake sliding up the table too, past his trembling hands, and opening its fanged mouth and devouring her whole, blood and bones and guts covering where he used to eat his dinners as a child. He sees his aunt’s blade opening up Hermione Granger’s arm.
When his mother - his mother, who he still loves, even after everything - speaks his name, softly like she had done when he was younger and less scarred, Draco’s resolve disappears. Everything else blurs until all he can see is her platinum blonde head, and he lifts one foot and takes a step onto the rubble in front of him, and then another, until a hand reaches out from behind him and grabs him by the wrist.
And there you are, weak from the night’s fighting, tears staining your cheeks, but with eyes as bright as stars because you are alive, wonderously, gloriously alive.
‘Draco.’
For the third time, someone speaks his name, and Draco takes in the sight of you, who he’s loved since fourth year, who he’s continued to love despite your ending it due to his involvement with Voldemort. Evidently you must still have some feeling left towards him, otherwise you wouldn’t be doing this.
He’d looked for you in the battle, before and after the fire in the Room of Requirement, heart leaping when he caught sight of people who could’ve been you, but weren’t. This went on for the rest of night, and in the heat and terror and waves of dead bodies that were too many to count, Draco had slowly given up hope.
'I thought you were dead.’
'Draco, don’t do this.’
Your hand continues to grip his wrist tightly, nails digging into soft skin. People are staring, and Narcissa Malfoy calls once again for her son, the sharp edge of fear creeping into her tone.
'I don’t want to,’ he chokes.
'Then don’t,’ you whisper. 'You’re better than this.’ You indicate with a shaking hand towards Voldemort and his followers. 'You’re better than him, than them -’
'I’m not.’
'You are. And - and you wanna know why?’
Draco stands still. The only part of him that moves are his grey eyes, stormy with turmoil and guilt. Then he begins to turn his head to look back at his parents. You reach out and place a trembling hand on his cheek, and gently guide his eyes to stare back into yours.
'Because they’ve made their choices,’ you say. 'They chose, some longer ago than others, to hurt people because of who they were. They chose to inflict pain. They chose to ruin lives. They’ve already chosen the path they want to take, and have covered a lot already. Most of them even seem to enjoy it.’
Grey eyes, stormy eyes, eyes beginning to fill with tears -
'I don’t think you would enjoy it.’
'Draco!’ Narcissa and Lucius, together this time.
'My parents,’ he whimpers, sounding like a little boy again.
You keep your hand pressed to his cheek. You can feel his blood pumping under his skin: warm, hot, pureblood, blood which isn’t at all different from anyone else’s.
'This is your choice. Your parents cannot make it for you.’
A grey sky above a grey castle covered in grey rubble, Harry lying dead in Hagrid’s arms -
'They made theirs a long time ago. Don’t suffer for them anymore. God knows you’ve suffered enough.’
You take your palm off his cheek; you’ve said all you can say. Draco is free now.
'Draco.’ A fourth speaker sounds his name in a soft snarl, and this time it is Voldemort himself. He is growing impatient - he is not making a request. It is a command, for Draco to decide. For Draco to choose.
He pulls his eyes away from yours. You don’t know what he is going to do. You have never been able to read him, not really, not even when you look into his soul through grey windows.
’Draco…’
A final warning. A sharp intake of breath from the crowd, and strangled screams are ripped from both Lucius and Narcissa’s throats.
The man turns around, and looks deep into Lord Voldemort’s snake eyes.
Draco Malfoy is shaking with terror, but he somehow manages to keep his voice steady.
'No.’
A gasp from the crowd, an angry hiss from Voldemort, and Lucius Malfoy begins to plead.
'My lord, he is just a boy - he does not understand what he is saying - the gravity of his words -’
Voldemort ignores him. He continues to stare at Draco, who stands his ground despite wanting the earth to give out underneath him. He imagines the flash of green light again, the dull thud, the snake -
’What did you say?’
The Slytherin common room, the thrill of Quidditch matches, Butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks, laughter with you -
’No.’
Narcissa Malfoy speaks, her soft voice brave in the cold air. 'My lord - please.’
Voldemort raises the Elder Wand -
'My lord, please!’
I’m so sorry, mother. I had to do this. I had to do it
You grab Draco’s sweaty hand and quickly lace your fingers with his, because if he is going to die, surely you will too, and you want to go with him. You want to go with the man who made the right choice, if only at the very end.
Voldemort begins to say the spell and you grip Draco’s hand tighter, but just as you’ve prepared to die something in the Dark Lord’s face changes and he whips around.
The bolt of green light hits Narcissa Malfoy square in the chest, and she falls with a sullen thud onto the cold stone floor.
Someone screams. Draco lets go of your hand and runs to his mother, Voldemort’s inhuman laugh echoing in both your ears -
This will hurt him far more than him dying ever could.
You want to run to Draco but your legs have turned to jelly and you can’t breathe. All you can comprehend is the sound of him howling, and you’ve never heard anything like it in your life. You shove your hands over your ears to no avail. Raw, ragged, animal screams of pain sound out in the courtyard of Hogwarts.
Guilt and heartbreak descend upon you, and they’re heavy, so heavy that it hurts. You sink down under the gazes of the onlookers, the vision of three blonde heads, one of them lolling lifelessly on the stone - oh god - blocked from your view. Not even Harry jumping from Hagrid’s arms and the chaos that ensues cause you to rise from your sitting position.
Eventually you feel strong grips under your arms and Neville Longbottom pulls you into the Great Hall, putting the grey courtyard out of your sight.
final one! i hate this update sm but thanks for reading. read ‘the leaky cauldron’ and ‘illicit affairs’ before embarking.
trigger warning: ptsd, nightmares, alcoholism, violence, trauma, major character death
The shadow covers me The sky above a blaze that only lovers see Amy Winehouse, ‘Tears Dry On Their Own’
Ron looks like someone’s punched him in the gut. The anger and betrayal and pain that burn through his eyes make Hermione wish the ground would swallow her whole.
It’s over, it’s over, my friends, Ron, Harry, everyone and everything I fought for, it’s over, it’s finished -
It’s Draco who speaks first. ‘Weasley, listen -’
‘Shutup,Malfoy, you bastard -’ Spit flies from Ron’s mouth, and tears well in his honest eyes. He’s reaching for his wand -
‘No!’ Hermione screams. In her panic, she lets the bedsheet that she’s been clutching to herself fall. Gooseflesh covers her body but she’s warm from embarrassment as she gathers the sheet up again. Ron’s eyes don’t stray from her face, not for one second. They look so lost, and so sad, and oh god, what have we done?
Draco’s fumbling into a pair of scruffy trousers.
‘Hermione -’ Ron’s voice cracks.
She’s crying now. ‘Ron, I’m so sorry -’
‘How long?’
She can’t answer, because she knows the answer is toolong.
‘It was when you started staying here overnight, wasn’t it?’
‘What’s it to you, Weasley -’ All of a sudden, he’s the same Draco that picked on her at school.
‘SHUT UP, MALFOY!’ Ron roars, brandishing his wand, and suddenly Draco’s whipped his out too, and they’re going to fight, they’re going to kill each other, and it’s all my fault -
‘NO!’ Hermione screams again. Ron drops his wand a little at this, and Draco, now back to herDraco, touches her shoulder gently. His hand is shaking.
‘We can leave, Granger. We could leave this all behind, us two together, I know you’re not happy -’
‘Oh, it’s Grangernow, is it?’ Ron yells. ‘No more MUDBLOOD?’
Draco flinches, and Ron notices. He laughs bitterly. ‘You might - you might feel bad about it now, but that doesn’t mean you can just erase all the hateful things you said to her -’
‘Ron!’ Hermione’s voice is high and shrill. The tears are a waterfall now, and Draco’s hand is still on her shoulder, and she never wants it to leave.
Ron’s face crumples. ‘Why him?’He whispers. ‘When the waitress who worked here told me, I didn’t - I didn’t believe it. But I had to see for myself - Hermione, why? He was horribleto you for years - he fought for fucking VOLDEMORT, for fuck’s sake!’
Oh god oh god oh god
Hermione pushes the urge to throttle the bloody waitress out of her mind and focuses on the matter at hand.
‘Granger.’ His hand’s digging into her shoulder. It will leave a mark to accompany all the other ones he’s left on her.
Ron’s face is red and blotchy and he’s shoving his hands to his face like he can’t believe what’s happening and it’s awful it’s awful -
‘Hermione, I know things haven’t been… amazing between us - maybe we were just better off being friends, I don’t know - but for you to be fucking Draco bloody Malfoy -’
Aforementioned gently places Hermione’s robes in front of her. She wants nothing more than for him to hold her and never let go, but she couldn’t do that to Ron.
Like you’ve not done enough to him already -
Draco’s voice is a whisper. ‘Come on, Hermione, let’s go.’
‘You fucking - STUPEFY!’
‘PROTEGO!’
Ron’s spell rebounds back towards him. He flies across the room - and there’s a sickening crack as his head hits the wall.
Hermione screams. The blood drains from Draco’s face. He runs to Ron, who’s head is at a funny angle.
She’s sick with fear, all over the crisp white sheets.
‘Weasley - Weasley, are you alright -’
Hermione wipes the vomit from her mouth and crawls over to the two men she loves.
You said loves -
Yes I did.
Draco’s desperately feeling for Ron’s pulse, and he’s sobbing now too.
‘Weasley, wake up, please,wake up -’
‘RON!’
After what feels like hours, Draco gives up feeling for a heartbeat and lies Ron on the dusty floor. He starts to push down hard onto his chest, so hard that Hermione’s scared he’ll break Ron’s ribcage -
What does his ribcage matter anymore when he’s -
She clamps a sweaty hand over her mouth.
Draco’s still pushing but it’s not working, so he tries blocking Ron’s nose and breathing into his mouth, and when that doesn’t work, Hermione tries instead.
There’s only so much you can do -
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UPPPPPPP
She tries all the healing spells she ever learnt at Hogwarts and read about in her textbooks.
It feels like the sun has set by the time Hermione gives up.
Draco pulls her into his chest. They cry together until the sky above’s ablaze with reds and oranges and pinks.
They don’t tell Harry the truth. Actually, Hermione doesn’t tell Harry the truth. As far as he knows, Draco is still hiding somewhere after the judges at his trial allowed him to escape Azkaban.
What Hermione does tell Harry and Ron’s family is similar to the truth. She says Ron died from a head injury after his spell rebounded while fighting a criminal; he was an Auror, after all. Her and Draco agreed that it was the easiest choice. Maybe the Sorting Hat was wrong, and she should have been put in Slytherin.
It’s a possibility that they’ll be found out. Hermione doesn’t care. She’s going to tell Harry the truth, one day. She knows she owes it to Ron to do so.
For now, she says that she needs to spend some time away from it all. Travel a bit. Harry understands. His kind eyes and round glasses and the childhood memories that cling to him make Hermione want to pull her hair out.
She dreams of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The ceiling is bewitched to look like the night sky, and the tables are piled high with food. She’s laughing with Harry and Ron. She dreams of Bellatrix opening her arm with a knife, and Ron coming to save her while Draco looks away. She dreams of obliviating the waitress, and wanting to punch her face in. Draco holds her back as she kicks and screams.
He’s always there, and Hermione’s glad. If there’s one thing she hates now, it’s being left alone, and she knows it’s the same for him. They move from muggle home to muggle home where there’s very little chance they’ll be recognised, constantly checking which family goes on holiday when. Draco talks about breaking into his father’s vault at Gringotts and stealing some of the Malfoy family fortune so that they have more to live on. Hermione doesn’t know whether he’s joking or not.
He’s there for the nightmares and cold sweats that Hermione’s starting to accept will never go away. She holds his clammy hands as he vomits into a toilet bowl when the memories of Voldemort’s visits to Malfoy Manor rear their ugly heads. She reprimands him when he makes a throwaway comment about muggleborns, because even after his change of heart, he still has so much left to learn. Hermione tries to teach him, and he listens.
Sometimes they argue, and sometimes their fights are as petty as the ones they used to have at Hogwarts about who was top of the class. But sometimes there’s screaming, and throwing things, and Hermione will tell Draco it’s his fault Ron’s dead. Sometimes he’ll hex her, but she always deflects his spells. Sometimes he’ll storm out and won’t be home for hours, but just as Hermione’s finished crying herself hoarse he’ll stumble in, blind drunk. Sometimes this will make her cry even more. Sometimes she’ll go and kiss him anyway.
Weeks turn into months, and months turn into years. Draco complains about the muggle way of life, even though Hermione knows he finds some of their customs fascinating. It isn’t as easy for her to admit, but she misses the wizarding world too.
She dreams of Draco and Ron, but she only wakes up to one of them, now. The white blonde hair that used to mean insults and torment when she saw it across a school classroom is now a welcome sight on the pillow next to hers, even if that sight fills her with guilt every second of every day.
author’s note: this was originally intended to be a oneshot but i’m feeling motivated to write rn so this is going to be a three part series:))
a chance meeting in the leaky cauldron, where hermione has been working to try to forget the horrors of the second wizarding war, leads to a series of illicit affairs. includes: much angst and implied smut. read ‘the leaky cauldron’ before embarking.
You showed me colours You know I can’t see With anyone else Taylor Swift, ‘illicit affairs’
They go upstairs, into the spare bedroom that Hermione has just told Draco about. Skin meets skin and tears mingle and the night passes in euphoric highs and snivelling, guilty lows. But Draco always kisses the tears away, and Hermione repays the favour.
When she wakes up, her head pounds. Dust particles float across the room, sprinkled around like icing sugar, and Hermione feels like she’s awakening from a dream. She hasn’t slept this well in months.
But someone’s breathing gently next to her. Lazy rays of morning sun soften the bags under Draco Malfoy’s eyes, and then the flood gates open, and Hermione remembers.
For some unknown, godforsaken reason, she wants to curl up next to him.
Tears prick at Hermione’s eyes. When she sees the dark, winding smudge on Draco’s forearm, they start to fall in streams, and soon she’s shoving a hand over her mouth as she sobs so that the Death Eater she just fuckeddoesn’t wake up.
Why do you care whether he wakes up or not? Why does Draco Malfoy getting his beauty sleep concernyou so -
Shut up shut up shut up
Hermione cries until she can’t anymore. Then -
Ron Ron Ron Ron Ron Ron
Ah, yes. I was wondering when we’d get to the man that you just cheated on.
Oh god oh god oh god shut up please shut up
Don’t you think he might be wondering why you didn’t come home last night?
Hermione stumbles out of bed, frantically throwing her clothes on, and she’s almost at the door when she looks back, she doesn’t know why, she can’t help it.
He’s still asleep. His white blonde hair is tousled, and his lips look soft and warm.
I thought he hated me.
You know what they say. There’s a thin line between -
Hermione slams the door behind her, like that will make the doubts go away.
When she finally reaches the house that Ron and her share, she’s panting and her legs burn from sprinting; if her crying didn’t wake Draco up, the door slam definitely did, and she can’t risk being there to face the consequences of their actions.
She pushes the door open, cringing at how much noise it makes. Maybe Ron will still be asleep and he won’t even have noticed she was missing and it will all be ok -
‘Hermione?’ His voice is a croak.
Ron’s standing in the hall, wearing a dressing gown. He’s clutching a can of beer in one hand and his face is red and blotchy, like he’s been crying.
‘Where were you?’
Hermione goes to him and takes his hand in hers, her heart thumping against her ribcage. ‘My shift - my shift at the Cauldron overran. I was so tired that I fell asleep there - Ron, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. Please don’t be angry.’
Some Gryffindor you are, lying to your best friend.
Ron doesn’t relax. ‘But I went to the Cauldron when you weren’t back for ages, and I didn’t see you there anywhere. I mean, it was past closing time so I could only look through the windows, but -’
She wants to scratch her eyes out at the waves of relief which wash over her.
‘The spare room,’ Hermione babbles. ‘There’s a spare room upstairs. I just thought I’d go for a quick lie down, but I fell asleep. You know how it is.’
Ron breathes a sigh, and pulls her into a hug. He feels safe and warm. Even if their relationship isn’t working, she knows that he will always care for her as a friend. Hermione wants to cry and cry.
‘Thank Merlin. You don’t know how scared I was, Hermione. For a minute I thought - God, I don’t know what I thought.’ Ron laughs shakily. ‘I thought maybe some fanatic who won’t accept Voldemort’s dead had found out where you worked or something. I thought that a Death Eater had got you.’
Hermione balls her hands into fists, her nails digging deep into soft palms.
The whole day, she’s terrified that Ron will sense the smell of him.Even when she changes her clothes, it still clings to her. If Hermione closed her eyes, she could feel him above her, behind her, inside her.
She wants to close her eyes, but she won’t let herself.
The day passes in a nervous blur, and soon it’s time for her shift at the Cauldron.
I need to go. They’ll wonder why I haven’t turned up.
Why don’t you just pretend to be ill?
I - I could.
But you don’t want to.
Shut it. With any luck, he’ll - he’ll have left already.
He hasn’t left. Of course he hasn’t.
Hermione cleans the bar and serves butterbeer and chats to customers while Draco sits in the corner, hiding his face and downing glass after glass of firewhiskey. The sun sets in the sky, splashing red across a darkening canvas, and Hermione finds herself taking sips of customer’s drinks until eventually she begins pouring her own.
The waitress who served Draco last night doesn’t arrive at her scheduled time, but Hermione doesn’t worry - the alcohol that she’s knocking back won’t let her. A dizzy memory waltzes through her mind, reminding her of how she pointed out the way to the spare bedroom to Draco, who went up by himself, unnoticed. Hermione remembers telling the waitress that she was done for the night, and leaving out the front door. The backstairs that led up to the room where Draco waited were slippy and frosted over.
An hour or so later, Hermione stumbles up those same stairs, swaying in the cold winter air and hating herself.
Draco’s touch is warm.
Weeks pass. Hermione spends less time with Ron, because she can’t bear to look into his sweet face after what she’s done. The times that they see Harry, it’s hard to look into his eyes, too. She tells them that the nightmares have been getting worse, so she wants to start working later shifts at the Cauldron, and when the pub closes, she’ll stay to clean up. She knows it upsets Ron but she does it anyway, each footstep further away from their home sending a painful jolt to her heart. Hermione serves the customers, she drinks, she cries in the bathroom. She tells the waitress that she’s going home, now. She staggers up the stairs, and tries to block out the voices in her head as Draco fucks her.
She wonders if he has doubts, too.
She asks him.
‘Yes,’ he says. The first silvery wisps of dawn are creeping through the window, and his voice is even deeper from sleep. It makes Hermione’s heart throb.
‘Then why do we do this?’ She whispers.
He pauses. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Draco, when did - when did you start feeling like this, for me?’ The words come rushing out, and Hermione can’t stop them.
Draco stares at her. He swallows. ‘I don’t know about that, either. All I know is that -’ He sounds like he’s almost choking on his speech. ‘All I know is that one day, I saw you - you weren’t really doing anything, just sitting at the Gryffindor table with Weasley and Potter. And you were laughing. And just then, I felt this sort of - this sort of warmthin my chest.’
Hermione knows that feeling all too well, now.
‘And I hated myself for it. Because all my life, my father had taught me that muggleborns… you know.’ Grey eyes flood with guilt. ‘I’m sorry for that, by the way.’
Draco apologises a lot to Hermione now, about what went on between them at Hogwarts. It’s another thing she loves about him.
Loves - you said loves -
What? No, no I didn’t -
‘And me hating myself… it made me angrier at you. Like it was your fault, or something. Even if it hurt me to be horrible to you - I still felt like I had to do it.’
It seems Draco is more well-versed in the practise of self-hatred than Hermione ever was.
‘But after what happened with Voldemort, I knew I couldn’t live that kind of life. Which, again, I’m… I’m sorry for choosing in the first place.’
‘It’s alright, Draco,’ Hermione murmurs. It isn’t, really. She touches the scar on her arm. But she’d forgive him anything, anything.
What’s happened to me? If the house elves who’s freedom I campaigned so fervently for could see me now, they’d laugh.
Draco lies back onto the pillow, and laces his fingers with hers. The Dark Mark touches Mudblood’s jagged scrawl. Hermione gives into temptation, and nestles her bushy head into his chest. A silence falls, as soft as new snow. Hermione’s eyelids flutter closed.
There’s footsteps up the stairs.
Draco’s head snaps up. He’s heard them too.
‘Hide under the bed, Draco -’
Too late. There’s no lock on this door and it’s being pushed open and the waitress has discovered their hiding place -
author’s note: first of all just wanted to say if anyone still cares that i’m so sorry about the joker fic, ik i haven’t updated in months - i started writing a new update but still don’t have any ideas on how to progress it:(( writer’s block sucks.
this is just a quick dramione one shot bc i’ve been in a pottah mood lately. also, isn’t it amazing how daniel radcliffe wrote the hp books?? jk rowling? i don’t know her.
the second wizarding war is over, and voldemort has been defeated. for hermione granger, however, the scars remain. suffering from ptsd and with her relationship with ron on the rocks, hermione has taken to working regular shifts at the leaky cauldron to keep her mind off things. one night, she comes across a familiar face. (draco x hermione) beware: much angst, but with a healthy dose of fluff at the end.
trigger warning: ptsd, nightmares, alcoholism, mentions of violence, trauma
I don’t never want to drink again. I just, I just need a friend. Amy Winehouse, ‘Rehab’
The flickering glow of recently lit candles bathes the Leaky Cauldron in a dim light. Outside, darkness has fallen.
Hermione hates the night. It reminds her that her shift is almost over, and that she will soon have to leave the dull comfort of the pub to face a crumbling relationship and, later, nightmares in garish colours of black and red. That’s if she manages to sleep at all.
She sighs, rubbing her tired eyes. Ron is a kind man and her best friend, but they just weren’t cut out to be lovers. What started as a tiny, nagging doubt has now become an incessant worry of Hermione’s - one that she is sure Ron can sense, too. But they care too much for each other to at least not try to make it work.
She wonders who will break the news first.
Hermione tries to push the uncomfortable thoughts out of her mind - like that’s ever worked before - and sets to methodically scrubbing the bar. Small, circular motions, one, two, one, two - you could just as easily use magic, you know - shut up, one, two…
The door opens, and someone enters. Hermione’s head snaps up. A new customer, thank god, something to do, someone to talk to - the Cauldron is nearly empty, at this hour.
The new arrival wears a hooded black robe and looks at the ground as he walks, so Hermione can’t see his face. His gait is timid and suspicious, like he’s scared someone will lash out at him - but he’s looking at Hermione like he recognises her, and as he turns away, she sees a flash of platinum blonde hair under the hood -
It can’t be him.
She hasn’t seen him in close to a year.
The man who she thinks is Draco Malfoy sits down at a table, as far away from Hermione as possible.
A waitress, the only other person aside from Hermione who’s working tonight, approaches him and asks if he’d like a drink. He murmurs something in reply - ‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you’ - another murmur - ‘It’s the hood - if you’d take it off, then I could hear’ - a sigh, and then the hood comes off with a resigned yank,and the waitress gasps.
It is him.
‘Get me something strong - not a butterbeer.’
‘Y - yes.’
She scurries off.
Hermione stares at the boy who bullied her mercilessly back at Hogwarts - at the man who watched as Bellatrix Lestrange carved mudbloodinto her arm - at the prisoner who both she and the rest of the wizarding world had last seen on trial.
‘Draco Lucius Malfoy, you have been charged with aiding and abetting the war crimes and crimes against humanity committed by one Tom Marvolo Riddle and his followers, and the attempted murder of one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore -’
People always used to say about Harry that there wouldn’t be a child alive who didn’t know his name.
Hermione never thought that the day would come when she’d compare Harry Potter to Draco Malfoy.
He was lucky to escape Azkaban, but he looks like he’s just left.
Draco’s face is gaunt, with hollowed-out cheeks. There’s not much left of the proud, pureblooded aristocrat in him, except for maybe the white blonde hair which is as it’s always been, perhaps just a little longer than usual. His eyes look empty and sad.
He glances over at Hermione, but when he sees her looking, quickly looks away. The waitress returns with his drink.
You should talk to him -
He doesn’t deserve it. He fought for the monster who tried to wipe out my whole kind, for God’s sake -
But did he really want to? You know what his father is like.
That’s - that’s not an excuse. And anyway, he wants to be left alone. We’d just start arguing again, like we did back at school.
Are you scared?
…
What, of Malfoy the bloody ferret?!
Hermione tries to block out the voice, and continues to scrub furiously at the bar. When she dares look up, she sees that Draco has finished his drink. He orders another one, downing it quickly. And another. And another.
God, how much does he drink?
What if he passes out? Then it’ll be all your fault for not stopping him when you could.
Shut up. I don’t care what happens to him, anyway.
Still scared?
Shut it.
Some Gryffindor you are.
That does it. With shaking hands, Hermione pours herself a butterbeer - you’ll need it - and walks to the table where Draco is sitting, slumped over his fourth drink. He looks up at her with bloodshot eyes, and she instantly regrets her decision.
‘Ah, Granger. I was wondering when you’d decide to grace us with your presence.’ He’s drunk, and his voice is deeper, deep like a muggle who smokes too many cigarettes.
Hermione’s normally brilliant mind goes blank, so she responds the only way she knows.
‘Shut up, Malfoy.’
Oh, for fucks sake. At least Ron and Harry would be proud.
Draco stares at her. For a moment, Hermione’s terrified that he’s going to start shouting, like alcoholics always do in films.
Oh god, he can’t be an alcoholic, can he?
She doesn’t know why that thought upsets her.
But he doesn’t shout. He starts to laugh. A loud, throaty laugh that makes the few people left in the Cauldron turn and stare. He sounds like he hasn’t laughed in years, which may, Hermione thinks, actually be the case. Then she starts to laugh too, at the absurdity of the whole situation. When they’ve cackled themselves sore, Draco motions to the chair opposite him.
‘Come on, Granger. Sit down. I need someone to talk to.’
So Hermione sits. An awkward silence settles, heavy with the years of not-so-pleasant history between them. She tries to break the ice.
‘How are you?’
She can hear the voice in her head laughing at her. Draco’s lips are pulled into a smirk.
‘Always so polite.’
Hermione takes a shaky gulp of butterbeer, and its warm burn gives her a jolt of much needed confidence.
‘So you’re saying I should be rude to you?’
‘After everything that’s happened, I’m surprised that you’re not.’
She doesn’t know what to say to that.
‘Anyway, to answer your first question,’ says Draco, ‘I am how I look. Bloody terrible. You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself, though.’
Hermione scoffs. He must not be a very good judge of character.
‘I take it then that you’re not,’ says Draco.
Bitterness bubbles up inside of her, like the potions they used to brew for Snape. Is he still just as ignorant as he used to be?
‘When you’ve risked your life and the lives of those you love countless times to fight a man who wants to murder all the muggleborns on the face on this Earth, you tend to have a few problems afterwards.’
Draco flinches.
‘Listen, Granger, about that -’
But Hermione can’t keep the anger hidden anymore. At first, she thought that not talking about it with anyone, not even Ron or Harry, would make it go away, but -
‘Oh, you’re sorry? If you care to remember, you called me a mudblood hundredsof times - so many times I can’t even count - and then you worked for Voldemort, and tried to kill Dumbledore, and watched as your fucking aunt hacked at me like an animal for the fun of it -’
A sob breaks through, and Hermione looks down at her glass. She’s drunk more than she thought.
A lone tear slivers down her nose and falls, plop, into the butterbeer.
‘Granger -’
‘What?’
Draco flinches again, like she’s slapped him.
‘I’m sorry.’
He sounds like a little boy again. Hermione remembers lying in bed in her second year dormitory, the day that Draco first called her mudblood.She remembers crying, wishing he’d say to her what he’s just said now. It means so much, but at the same time, it means nothing.
She sniffs back an onslaught of tears. ‘Sorry won’t make the nightmares go away.’
A cold chill passes between them.
‘I have nightmares too,’ he says.
You bloody bastard, this isn’t about you, Hermione wants to scream. But Draco’s eyes are cold and haunted, so she lets him talk. Some things never change.
‘They’re always at the Manor, or at Hogwarts, but with all the bodies from the battle -’
He drinks more from his glass, like the alcohol will wash the memories away.
‘And there’s a snake, but with Voldemort’s red eyes.’ Draco’s whispering, now. ‘And it slides up the table towards me - and - and my family is watching - and I can’t move - and then it opens… opens its mouth.’
A little talk - girl to girl - she’s lying on the cold stone floor - her sleeve is ripped up, and her bare arm feels naked in the cold air - but the cold is nothing compared to the pain - it hurts, hurts so much - Draco is trying to look away, but he’s not doing anything - why, why won’t you do anything, you bastard -
‘I dream of you too, sometimes.’ His chin wobbles. ‘Of my aunt, and - and what happened.’
‘What she did to me.’ Hermione can feel the scar on her arm, the jagged indents of the knife -
He nods, trembling. ‘What she did to you.’ Another gulp from the glass.
‘You shouldn’t drink so much.’
‘It makes the pain go away.’
They sit in silence for a few moments. The butterbeer is making Hermione’s head swim.
‘Why are you here, Draco?’
‘I wanted a drink.’
‘No, I mean -’
‘I left the Manor after my trial. Too many… memories.’
‘But didn’t your father -’
‘Try to stop me - yes. Told me I’d be forsaking the Malfoy name and money if I left.’ He breathes out shakily. ‘I left anyway.’
Hermione is shocked. ‘I thought family was everything to you Slytherins.’
A small ghost of a smile. ‘Not everything.’ It falls again. ‘Leaving my mother was hard, though.’
Hermione always thinks of Narcissa Malfoy as a stuck-up, unfeeling sort of woman. But she’s infinitely better than Draco’s father.
‘So where do you live now?’
‘I don’t live anywhere.’ Draco sees the look on Hermione’s face. ‘I know, a Malfoy living without his family riches - it was hard to get used to, I must admit. Especially sleeping in pub toilets. But I’m too scared to get a -’
‘A job?’ Hermione sees how embarrassed he looks.
‘Yes, for - for obvious reasons. I’ve tried twice before - but everyone knows who I am, you see, and no-one really wants to - you know. This is the first time I managed to pluck up the courage to come in here. I certainly never expected to find you. Why are you here, by the way? I heard,’ he swallows, ‘you live with Weasley now.’ There’s an odd look on Draco’s face.
‘I do,’ says Hermione. ‘It’s just - I don’t know. The routine of working here takes my mind off of everything. Like you said - if I don’t keep busy, the memories - they’re too much.’
‘I understand,’ murmurs Draco.
And he does.
A strange feeling takes over Hermione.
I can’t believe I’m about to do this.
‘Listen, Malfoy. There’s a - there’s a spare room, upstairs, here. With a bed. If you wanted to -’
Draco looks like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
‘You’d let me stay here?’ he whispers.
‘Well, no-one uses it anymore, so, y - yes. But it might be a bit dusty. And you can’t work here - because I don’t think being around -’ She motions to their glasses. ‘I don’t think it’s good for you.’
And suddenly, Draco Malfoy starts to cry.
Hermione stares at him, open-mouthed.
‘Why are you being so kind to me?’ His shoulders rack with sobs. ‘You should - Hermione, you should hateme for what I’ve done to you.’
You called me Hermione.
‘I - I don’t deserve -’
For some reason, her heart constricts, and her breath hitches in her throat. Hermione leans forward, swaying a little from the alcohol, and puts her hand on Draco’s arm. With a chill, she realises that the Dark Mark lurks underneath the grubby cloth.
Draco jolts back, shocked at her sudden gesture. For a moment, Hermione’s terrified that he’s going to pull away - but he doesn’t, and melts into her touch.
She remembers, all those years ago, seeing Draco with his father at Flourish and Blotts. She knew then that this was a man who’d never hugged his son. Back then, Hermione couldn’t fathom a life without the warm hugs that her muggle parents so frequently gave her.
She can feel Draco’s blood pumping beneath his skin. Slowly, he repays the debt, and Hermione feels the heavy weight of his hand curve around her arm. Fingers trace a ghostly touch over her scar. He’s stopped sobbing, but his grey eyes are still wet. They remind Hermione of misty hillsides on an the early morning. Salty tears crystallise on beautiful black lashes, and his face is flushed.
He presses his lips to hers. It’s soft, and a sweet hurt.
I felt so fucking depressed and empty on work yesterday i got a prescription from the doc today so u can be at home this week clean the Apartment. I feel so overwhelmed. I eat like 800 for this week . So my psych will be fine again . I hope so … also i started an Vitamin therapy for my Body suche u git a massive Vitamin D and Iron Lack . So wish me luck . Like.. i did my work shift yesterday i was in the bike with my daughter and outside with her for two hours. Today i promised to do her nails . So it will be a fun day , but holy shit did i felt suizidal and empty yesterday . Like i wont do anything stupid of course . But like… holy shit am i tired .. get well soon catgirl .
The thing about Maus and everyone saying that it’s triggering just makes me think of the best argument pro critical race theory, which is that if a five year old black kid is exposed to racism everyday, then your five year old white kid can learn about racism.
Jewish people grow up and they know from their youth about this event that decimated their numbers, an event that has been so fucking traumatic that people don’t truly know just how deep the intergenerational trauma will go.
I, as a non-jewish guy, read Maus and I feel my insides churn but the difference between me and a Jewish guy of my same age is that it doesn’t mean I am in danger. This didn’t happen to my grandfather or grandmother. I can put fucking Maus down and I can go back to my day, unlike Jewish people who will need to face the world AS JEWISH.
The world hates Jewish people. When they read Maus, it is something that HAS HAPPENED. It isn’t fiction, it isn’t a story someone wrote to entertain, Maus tells you what fucking happened.
You HAVE to digest that, like thousands of Jewish people have, MUCH younger than you.
Get a fucking grip, of course it’s horrifying. Let that motivate you into unlearning antisemitism, instead of putting the subject away for your own comfort.
how many rapes jokes does it take to be funny? he knows the answer is none. no one had to tell Amnon the sin in taking Tamar, nor was Duryodhana confused when he patted his thigh mocking Draupadi, nor Dusshasana dumb when attempting to disrobe her. yet you chant men need to understand, to read and watch our unending torment to understand evil.
Synopsis (taken from GoodReads): Sydney seems like a normal 15-year-old freshman. She hangs out underneath the bleachers, listens to music in her friend’s car, and gets…
I hope everyone is ready! The first chapter of Follow The Stars Home is here me and @the-wayward-robot are so excited to bring you this story. This story and characters means so much to me and @the-wayward-robot we are excited for you all to meet Piper and Wes :)
To the amazing @the-wayward-robot my best friend my sister without you this story would have never been written without you creating Wes. Thank you for creating this story with me for everything you’ve done for me and more. I love you so much!
Warnings: Super big warning, dealing with emotional abuse, talks about abuse. This chapter talks about and deals with a past emotional abuse relationship, so if any of that is triggering please do not read this chapter. 18+ Only for this story please.
Beautiful moodboard credit goes to the amazing talented @the-wayward-robot she also made my beautiful divider as well, Check out her edits!
The trees seem to move faster as the car drives past each of them. This car ride was quiet, a bit uncomfortable as Bucky slowly peeks in the rearview mirror, Piper hasn’t moved since she got in the car. He was worried about his Little Wolf, the way she sounded on the phone, the way her voice was so quiet, so scared.
“Dad please come get me, I’m packed up just please come,” Bucky recalls her phone call and how he had never moved faster. He called Steve on the way for help, Bucky wasn’t sure what he was going to pull up to he wasn’t sure if he was going to have to beat up a certain boyfriend, well now Ex, he assumes.
Piper keeps her red puffy eyes looking out the window, her tears have dried up, and she has no more left to cry. Shaking her head, she wonders, how could she have let herself fall for this man? How could she have let him do this to her? Wes warned her, Wes begged her to leave him, and she ignored him… She even… Piper lets out a sob, remembering how she hurt Wes, how she chose this stupid boyfriend over her Wes, her best friend in the whole world she lost him.
“Little Wolf are you okay?” Bucky asks quietly
Piper nods wiping her eyes, “I will be dad.” She whispers.
Piper truly hopes she will be, but she fears she won’t be. She let Jason cost her everything, she believed him like a fool because she thought this was love but No, this was not love. Love doesn’t do this, love doesn’t cost you your best friend, love doesn’t make you feel sad and alone all the time. Piper shuts her eyes as tears make their way down, laying her head against the window, clutching her wolfy plushie. She whispers.
“I’m sorry Wes.”
Renee stands outside Piper’s room. It’s been around a month since she came home. Piper doesn’t leave her room very often, she only comes out on occasion to eat and to use the restroom. Renee gently opens the door, peeking inside; finding Piper asleep holding her Wolfy plushie. Renee smiles sadly, unsure of what to do, Renee is worried Piper is fading, Piper hasn’t said much about what happened, only bits and pieces. It worries Renee. Taking a deep breath Renee decides to call Rowan, maybe she could help.
“Ro it’s Re… I need some help. Do you think maybe you could invite Piper over for dinner at your place? I just want her to get out of her room but nothing I do seems to work.”
Rowan is already out the door, the Barnes and Rogers live next door to one another. Renee hears the knock as she hangs up the phone, chuckling as she sees Rowan.
“I’m here, let’s get her out of that bed,” Rowan says, Renee smiles as the two head up to Piper’s room.
Renee gently knocks on the bedroom door.
“Little Wolf, Auntie Ro wanted to ask you something.” Opening the door they find Piper is still huddled under covers…
“Sweetie?” Rowan says softly from the doorway, Piper slowly peeks up from the blankets
Renee and Rowan walk into Piper’s room, Renee feels her heartbreaking seeing her little wolf this way
“There are those pretty brown eyes of yours,” Rowan says chipperly, Piper sniffles as she slowly uncovers herself still clutching Wolfy.
“Sweetie, you’re coming over to dinner tonight with me and Steve,” Rowan says, smiling softly at her.
Piper shakes her head “I don’t think so Auntie maybe another time.”
Rowan shakes her head as she walks over to the bed, gently pulling the covers off. “No is not an option. Come on, Re you grab her legs I’ll get the arms.”
“No, no I’ll go, I just need to shower,” Piper says as Ro smirks.
“Good, your mom and I will be waiting downstairs.” Ro gives her a big hug, as Renee gently kisses her head and reminds her “I love you my Little Wolf so much.” before they go wait downstairs
Piper takes a deep breath, looking at Wolfy, before placing him on her pillow. She eyes her phone, letting out a sigh of relief when she sees there are no more messages from Jason. She blocked him but he kept getting a new number. Maybe he was finally done. She smiles seeing a text from Wyatt.
“Hey! Hope you’re doing well! Have you talked to Wes yet? You really should! I know he’d like to hear from you., You know he still loves you even after everything Piper… Anyway, hang in there, text or call whenever you need. I’m sending you a cute photo of puppies to cheer you up… and Wes is in it too.”
Piper smiles seeing the photo, it makes her happy to see Wes being with animals.
Wes was getting his degree to be a Veterinarian. Piper was so excited when he told her that’s what he wanted to go to college for. Piper had wanted to go back to school and get a degree in it as well, so maybe one day they could run her mom’s clinic together but she let Jason make her think she was foolish for wanting that, that she wasn’t smart enough for it. Sitting on her bed, she runs her fingers over Wolfy, remembering when Wes got him for her.
-Flashback-
Piper was 8 and Wes was 5. They were playing with Piper’s Wolfy, her plush that’s been with her since she was two, it had seen better days, it’s been patched and sewn up to many times to count. Piper was gently playing with Wolfy when all of a sudden, POP! stuffing starts pouring out of him as Piper cries “Wolfy! No!” Piper and Wes hopelessly try putting him back together best they can.
“We fix him Pipe!” Wes tries to reassure her. But Piper wasn’t so sure.
Try as they might, Bucky and Renee had to tell Piper the sad news that Wolfy couldn’t be played with anymore, he’d have to be placed up from now on. Piper cried for her Wolfy, who had always been with her
Meanwhile, little Westley Rogers was on a mission. He wanted to cheer his Pipe up. As they walked through the store Wes eyed the stuffed animals, without saying a word he found the perfect wolf stuffed animal and placed it in the cart.
Ro eyes him and picks up the stuffed animal.
“Wes, baby do you want this? That’s fine but next time ask okay.” Wes with his messy blonde hair shakes his head “No, it’s for my Pipe!” Rowan just melts as she watches how serious her little five-year-old son was
Ro smiles at her son “Okay baby, she’ll love this.” Wes nods with a big toothy grin.
Later that day, Wes ran to find his Pipe with a bag in his hands.
“For my Pipe!” He says, Wes’s beautiful eyes sparkle as Piper opens the bag, her eyes widen as she pulls out a wolf plush her eyes misty.
“New Wolfy Pipe,” Wes yells out excitedly. Piper starts to sniffle a little as she holds the Wolfy plush and pulls Wes into a big hug.
“I’ll love him forever and ever, especially because he came from you, Wes. I love you, Wes.” She kisses his cheeks as she hugs her new Wolfy and hugs her best friend even closer
-End of Flashback-
Piper gently stares at Wolfy she gently brings it up to her lips and kisses its head. She meant it when she said she’d love her Wolfy forever because it came from Wes. Taking a deep breath she headed into the bathroom to take a shower, it was time to maybe start living again.
After her shower, Piper finally feels like a person again. She heads over to the Rogers house. As Ro is finishing up, Piper gets caught up looking at all the photos on the wall. She stops staring at a photo of Wes. She runs her fingers over it.
“I’m sorry, so sorry.” She whispers holding in her emotions.
Ro, having seen her, walks over and slowly wraps her arms around Piper.
“Have you two talked at all since your break up?” Ro asks, Piper shakes her head. Ro frowns. “I never believed the story of you two growing apart. What really happened between you two?.”
Piper starts to break down, tears falling down her face as Ro holds her close.
“Oh, Piper sweetie.. why don’t we send Steve over to go hang out with your dad and have a girl’s night? Get your mom over here and we can just talk. Would that be okay?”
Piper nods “I’d like that,” she says smiling sadly.
One phone call later Renee was over at the Rogers house in a flash, with an overnight bag for Piper and herself.
Renee smiles, handing Piper Wolfy, “Made sure he was packed first.” Piper just snuggles him as the three of them have a peaceful evening, Piper opens up a little about what happened with Jason, that he controlled her, made her believe horrible things about herself, and how she mistook his emotional abuse for love.
“I cut Wes out of my life because of him.” She whispers as Renee and Ro on each side of her rub her back. “I let him take my Wes from me.” She wipes her eyes. “Why was I so weak? You and dad raised me better than this and I just let him do this to me.”
Renee kisses her head holding her close. “No Little Wolf, you weren’t weak he used to love, twisted it. You’re so strong, Piper you got out you left him!”
Rowan nods smiling. “Your mom is exactly right you left, you’re so strong it takes so much courage to leave Pipe.”
Piper nods crying a little as Renee and Ro hold her close.
Holding Wolfy to her chest Piper can’t sleep, she looks over, seeing her mom and Ro fast asleep. taking a breath Piper grabs her phone takes it and wolfy into the bathroom. Taking a photo of Wolfy with shaky hands she texts Wes.
“Even after all these years, I still sleep with him, he keeps me safe.” Piper takes a breath wondering if Wes will respond.
Finally after what feels like forever Piper gets a text back.
“I’m glad he still helps, not gonna lie, I was sure you threw him out… I’m happy you got out Piper, I truly am.“
Piper feels so many emotions seeing Wes text her back. She has missed him so much, that she wishes she’d never cut him out. A year with no Wes was the worst mistake of her life. Taking a deep breath she texts him back.
“I had to hide him but I’d never throw him out. Wes… I’m sorry.. can I… I have no right to ask this but can I hear your voice?”
Not a moment later her phone lights up with a FaceTime call from Wes. Piper takes a deep breath as she’s met with those beautiful eyes and faces she’s missed so much.
“So how’s my Pipe?”
Next Chapter
What does everyone think about the first chapter? Let us know! I hope everyone is ready for what's in store for these two! I know we are excited to bring you more of Wes & Pipe’s story! Stay Tuned for more!
I’m writing this in the hopes that I can help myself and contextualize what happened to me. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been in a process of recovering from an incident I never thought in a million years would ever happen. I know it sounds ridiculous and maybe even selfish (?) to say but it’s never something that I thought would ever happen to me. I’d like to preface that I’m writing this not to seek pity and “I’m sorry for you”’s, I’m writing this to put my thoughts into one place and create a safe space to share my own story. Firstly, I’d like to say that at the time of writing this, I am not comfortable to referring to the story as rape or sexual assault. I am not mentally prepared to call what happened to me what it is. It invokes a feeling in me I am not yet ready to face. Therefore, until I have reached a point in my recovery where I am capable to call what happened to me those two phrases, I will be referring to it as “the incident”. I’m kinda just keeping this all loose. I’ll write when I feel like it. It’ll definitely be a word vomit and very stream of consciousness.
5/26/2021-At the time I’m writing this, I’m about three days off of my depression and anxiety medication as I just returned home from college and I’m waiting to get my prescription refilled. What’s really shocked me throughout this entire process of recovering, I haven’t cried nearly as much as I thought I would. I’m an emotional person, I cry at simple things like angsty YouTube videos and even the slightest mention of something sad gets me all teared up. But in the past three weeks since the incident, I haven’t cried about what happened. The first week since was just me trying to physically recover from the effects of being drugged but now it’s just me trying to figure out how to navigate my mental state and create a lifestyle that’s effective for me. When I say that, I mean this, prior to the incident I enjoyed meeting people! I enjoyed drinking with friends and hooking up with people from dating apps! I was really safe with everything that I do. My roommate and all of my friends had my location. If I was meeting someone at their place I would have a friend drive me and make sure the vibes of the place were okay. I would never meet someone who didn’t go to my college and would only meet in places that weren’t too far from the school. I enjoyed a free lifestyle of being independent. I loved meeting new people! Prior to the incident I was also really sex positive, (still am but I’ll explain shortly) I enjoyed my sexual liberation and the powerful feeling I got from it. All of that changed so much. I couldn’t even get myself to go to the dining hall with my friends. I wasn’t able to sleep in my own bed, let alone sleep alone. For the last two weeks of the semester I would move my mattress into my friends room across the hall and sleep on their floor. If I could stomach sleeping in my own room I would still have two people minimum in the room with me whilst I slept. I couldn’t shower alone, I couldn’t go on walks, I was hesitant to drink, hesitant to make out or hook up with someone, hesitant to see some of my friends. I felt like so many parts of my personality were stripped from me. My independence that I’ve had my entire life was suddenly gone. I began to worry what that meant for next semester. Now that everyone is getting vaccinated and my university is requiring all returning students to be vaccinated, I’m sure classes will be in person again. This means walks from each lecture hall, late night walks back to my dorm from the library, walks to the dining hall and having to sit there as opposed to taking my meal to my dorm and eating. All of this is just looming over my head. What if I see him? I mean we’re going to live close to each other next semester (not out of want but I’m going to be an RA and was assigned a dorm close to the one he resides in). For fucks sake he’s going to work at the mail center that I am required to get mail at. I don’t think I can physically prepare myself for encounters with him. I’ve thought about filing an order of protection (kinda like a restraining order) so that I wouldn’t have to fear him being near me, but in the midst of finals and heading home, I just wasn’t able to fill it out. All of this legal jargon is just so confusing and I know I have people to help me but it’s so hard. I have six people on the daily reaching out to me including two advocates. I constantly have to relay info and it’s just so difficult to keep everything in one place. I know my friends are willing to help and I appreciate it very much but I just don’t think I can physically do anything. I’m so tired. So so tired. I don’t want to fill out paperwork, I don’t want to go in front of a judge, I don’t want to deal with police interrogations. Most of all I hate that I have now become a victim. One of the main reasons I can’t get myself to press charges is just how it’ll look. I know it’s a stupid thought. I know getting justice is the right thing to do. But I can’t explain how hard it is to come forward and say this is what happened to me. Regardless of what I do, I will ALWAYS have people who will say things, say I deserve it, say it was my fault. Even if I don’t believe it, I just don’t want to hear it. I just wish I was able to get justice quietly. I know that if I come forward with what happened to me, it WILL be news. My university is on the international spectrum and it will make news just like the incident at Stanford years ago. I don’t want that attention. I don’t want my story in the hands of people who don’t know ME. Who don’t know what I know. Who will never know me and my life story. So for now, I don’t want to file an order of protection and I don’t want to press charges. I’m not strong enough for that yet. Maybe one day.
