#trigger warning dv

[csashton]

Healing - PG x Reader

Warnings: mentions of domestic violence, injuries, trauma. Please read at your own risk. take care of yourselves 🖤 and do not read if this will negatively affect you.

Summary: reader is in an abusive relationship, it all comes to a head and Pierre finds out. Pairing: Pierre Gasly / Reader

Word count: 1872

A/N: This is really just a trauma dump from personal experience. But I am OK - I am healed. If you or someone you know is in a situation where you need help, please reach out. The domestic violence hotline: [phone]. or I will try to help you in any way that I can.

The relationship you were in was beyond toxic. It had been for the last two years of dating, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. Everyone had their suspicions about what went on behind closed doors, especially Pierre. You did your best to hide it.

He’d tried for months to get you to break up with James, but none of his tactics worked. You loved James, and James loved you. Sometimes had some rough days and he would take it out on you. But everyone had rough days, right?

The first six months were a dream. He treated you like you were a queen. Extravagant dates, trips, gifts, anything you asked for, he got for you. Then one day it was like a switch flipped. More often than not you were arguing, or he would start a fight over something trivial. Anything that went wrong in his day-to-day life was your fault. It took a massive toll on your mental health, but you pushed through. It was nothing you couldn’t deal with.

Pierre noticed immediately. He would call daily to check in on you, making sure you didn't need anything.

More recently, James had become physical with you. It first started with pushing or shoving you out of his way during an argument. Then one day it all came to a head. You had forgotten to wash his shirt for a work trip, so you wouldn't have time to iron it before he left. This ended up with you shoved into the wall, a hand around your throat as you gasped for air, begging him to let go.

You forgave him, of course. He came back from his work trip with flowers and a beautiful gift in hand. He showered you with kisses and apologies, so you swept it under the rug.

Coming up with excuses as to why you couldn’t hang out or go to events with Pierre was the hard part. He caught on, though you’re sure he assumed it was James not allowing you to go. He didn’t know about the abuse, and you were determined to keep it that way.

Over the last few months, you’d gotten a lot better at hiding the bruises. When Pierre asked to hang out, you'd fake a work trip or illness. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d seen Pierre in person, the limited conversations either over facetime or phone calls.

Now, curled up in a hospital bed, you knew there was no way of keeping it from him. He was your emergency contact. You couldn't recall why this fight started. Unsure if either the concussion or blacking out was the cause. But it was the worst one yet.

There was a sharp pain radiating through your head and a dull ache through the rest of your body. The sound of a chair squeaking caught your attention, pulling your eyes, well eye that wasn’t swollen shut, to the corner of the room. Pierre was there, an angry look on his face, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m guessing you won’t buy the ‘I fell down the stairs’ excuse?” You choke out, trying to lighten his mood. At the sound of your voice, he’s up and sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling one of your hands in his. “Please, don’t joke right now, mon ange.” His voice is scratchy like he’s been crying. “Sorry.” You whisper as you look away, “I don’t like seeing you worry, or seeing you angry.” His hand comes up to brush your hair from your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped you.” his voice breaks near the end, his free hand coming up to wipe the tears on his cheek.

“You have enough to worry about, Pear. You didn’t need to worry about me.” He brushes off your explanation, opening his mouth to argue, but you cut him off. “It was never this bad, he’s never been this bad. I don’t know what set him off. Everything was fine, and then it wasn’t.” you mutter, taking a deep breath as you watch the emotions flick across his face.

His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally speaks, “He almost killed you.” You nod, biting your lip as you shift in bed, groaning in pain. “You’ve got a concussion, broken nose, broken wrist, a few broken ribs, a broken ankle and foot. You’re more bruise than you are human at this point. But somehow no internal bleeding, even though he used your stomach as a boxing bag.” his voice trembles as he looks down.

“That explains why I feel like shit, but I’m sure the black eyes bring out my beauty, yeah?” you attempt to joke, earning a token judgemental Pierre glare. Humor had always been your way of coping.

“I thought you were dead when they called.” He admits, thumb rubbing over the back of your hand. “Your neighbor Ms. Nancy heard you screaming for help, she called the police. But you were silent by the time they got there. I got the call from the hospital, they had you stable by the time I got here.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you, and I’m sorry for not telling you.” You hesitate, gripping his hand in yours. “It wasn’t bad, in the beginning. He didn’t start any physical stuff until a few months ago - before it was only verbal. But he would always apologize and he was so sweet to be when he got back.” Tears fill your eyes as you continue, “But I couldn’t tell you, I couldn’t burden you with that. I had to pull away from you, he would get so mad when he found out I was talking to you. I didn’t want anything to happen to you.” you whisper, squeezing his hand again.

Pierre’s got tears in his eyes when you look up, his mouth twisted in a frown. “I told you to stop protecting me. But that’s not the point right now.” he waves you off as you try to interrupt him. “What matters is you’re safe, he’s in police custody. You’re going to get healthy, the boys will move your things out of the apartment as soon as possible. You will stay with me until you’re healthy and safe.” he stresses.

“Pierre, I ca-” He holds his hand up again, “If the next words are not, ‘thank you, Pierre, I will move in, Pierre.’ I do not want to hear them.” his voice is serious, eyes hard when you look up again.

“Thank you, Pierre. I will move in, Pierre.” You grin, rolling your eyes at him. “He’s lucky that I didn’t get a phone call from Ms. Nancy, or he’d be in the morgue and I’d be in jail for murder.” You nudge him as best you can with your casted arm, leaning your head back on the pillow.

“Can you please not tell anyone this happened?” You ask, “I don’t want to worry anyone else, and I don’t want to deal with all the drama that comes with it.” He’s got a sheepish look on his face as you finish speaking. “I already told Charles, and Charles told Carlos who told Lando. They’re figuring out the logistics of moving your things, the police should be done surveying your apartment soon. Then they can get started.”

A loud groan leaves your throat as you bring your hands up to cover your face, “Pierre.” you mutter, “that’s so embarrassing. They’re going to think I’m so weak and stupid for staying.” His hands pull yours away from your face, pinning them to your sides. “If I ever hear you talking bad about yourself again, you’re going to sit through hours of myself and Charles complimenting you, do you want that? No one will thing you're weak or stupid. No one knows what you went through every day.” he states, voice stern but eyes twinkling. You shake your head, then groan at the pain of your brain rattling around.

“Ugh, okay. That was stupid. I need to rest, I’m getting nauseous again.” Your voice wavers as you speak. “Sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.” He’s quiet as he pulls the scratchy blanket back up over you, tucking you in. You’re not released until a few days later, but you’re chomping at the bit to get out. Against Pierre’s wishes, you make him take you back to the apartment. A fresh pair of clothes and a phone charger is all you want. The sound of voices greet you when you arrive, crutches and a hovering Pierre behind you.

“Oh, my god.” Lando’s voice is a whisper as you crutch into the kitchen where he’s crouching on the floor. He's cleaning up what looks like broken glass with specks of your blood mixed in. Carlos and Charles rush into the room not a few seconds later, Charles’ hand flying up to his mouth. Carlos muttered a quick, “Ay, dios mio!” before shutting his mouth, staring at you wide-eyed.

“I’m not a spectacle, I’m still the same old me.” You snap before taking a deep breath, looking around the room. There are poorly cleaned trails of your blood across the room, and shattered glass littering the floor. Duffel bags are sitting by the door which you assume has your belongings in it. “Please tell me you’re not cleaning up my blood.” You can’t help the shake in your voice, “Please, this is not your responsibility. Please stop.” you beg, wobbling on your crutches while Pierre grabs onto your hips to hold you up.

“Mon ange, please calm down. They wanted to help, they didn’t want you to come back to a mess when you got your things.” he explains, holding you as you lean your crutches against the wall, then lean back into him for support. “Please stop. I will call someone to deal with this, I want to get my things and go. I want a nap, my body hurts and I just need the emotional support of my friends. I don’t need you to fix my mess.” You can’t help but complain. “I’m very thankful, and I love you all very much. But, I would appreciate if you stop staring at me like a zoo animal and help me carry my things out of here. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.”

The tremble in your voice snaps them into gear. Carlos grabbing the duffels by the door while Charles and Lando grab whatever boxes they packed from the bedroom and living area.

Once you’re settled on the couch at Pierre’s, Lando insists on unpacking your things into the guest room. You must fall asleep on the couch because when you wake up, your head is in a sleeping Pierre’s lap. Your foot, in the massive boot, propped up on a pillow in Carlos’ lap. Lando and Charles are asleep on the floor in front of the couch and a credit scene is rolling on the TV. Sure, you’ve just gone through the most traumatic thing in your life. But all you needed to heal was being here, with them… and maybe a little (lot) of therapy. 

[betweendayspoems]

The Box

My heart lurches at the touch of a man. I do not crave them, however. I merely react in a way I have been conditioned to. I am worthy of your touch, I am worthy of your gaze, love me, love me, choose me, even though I do not choose you back. The deepest part of me believes that there must be something in me that makes people hurt me. I know now that I keep a part of myself back at all times, I keep it hidden, locked away, it is unreachable, impenetrable. It lives in a place called The Box.

The men I have loved have clawed at it, they have scratched and maimed their way through my ribcage, pulling apart the bones and shredding my organs to reach it. They are surprised when they find that is where my flesh stops. The sound of knuckle on metal three inches deep. I gasp. When someone reaches straight through and pulls at your life force, there is a hollowness. It isn’t bad or good. It just is.

The Box is made of steel, you see, and it lives inside of me. This is where the part they crave the most lies. Some would call it Pandora’s Box. Hissing and self-protective above all. It holds the truth they would never be ready to hear, but my God, does it dress so beautifully. There is a magic that surrounds it. While it may be cool and solid to touch, it smells like lavender and roses and it glitters iridescent like a prophecy. A mirage. Men are obsessed with prophecies. This is a tale from the beginning of time. Only a few can hear the truth. It is an illusion; you doubt your own touch when you see it with your eyes. Still, they try, and they try, they have clawed in so far already that surely this can be broken too, and this is the point that The Box pulls them in. The place of no return. Shimmering iridescence turns them dark and smiles the Cheshire Cat. It covers the truth, but it is there if you listen quietly. It was there all along. 

I will hurt you

I am not capable of loving you

You will hurt me too 

You must pay for the sins of my father.

The Box feeds on their twisted words, sucking in their shouts and fervent desperation with deep pleasure. Yes, this is what The Box craves. When the lovers’ words become more vicious than my mind ever wanted to believe possible, when it is fed, when it is proven just, it vanishes from sight from my lover, forever. They are left with the truth that I was never theirs to begin with. I was only ever pretending. 

The Box, of course, always knew. She holds all secrets. Snakes twisting up childhood thighs, under the covers it slithers and The Box graciously transforms the memories so there are no longer fingers, no large hands, there are only slimy, cool scales. This snake is my friend, I think sometimes The Box has grown around it. Perhaps it lies there trapped, forever. I may never know. I cannot break The Box, either.

The Box transformed me too, you know. It hid the truth from me too, I swear it to you. I didn’t have a choice when it made its home inside me. I didn’t know what I was doing. As I grew older and listened to the whispers, the steel of The Box would crush up against my organs, its sharp edges threatening to pierce through the leathery film on my jaded, ever-hopeful heart. The Box told me there was a saviour, that I was to find him and let him own me. To submit, or at least pretend to. It said there was pleasure in submission, in giving myself over. I cannot say I didn’t enjoy doing what the box told me to. Oh, I revelled in it for a while. I dressed myself up as the prettiest doll and I let myself be enjoyed, and for a while, I thought this meant I was having fun, too. But The Box was always there. And she always wanted to feed. 

‘Why do you like me?’ One lover asked. 

The Box shot itself up to my throat and stole the truth. My throat let my heart beat it instead. This was always easier to ignore. The pain that lived there had existed since the beginning of time and I rarely felt it anymore. The Box swallowed the whispers of ‘I don’t’ within its impenetrable walls. 

I like what you can give me. 

Gulp. 

I like being desired by you. 

Gulp. 

I am only letting you use me until I decide it isn’t what I want anymore. 

Gulp. 

I am paying for the sins of my father.

In their place, the lies rose. Sticky, hot, desirable lies. People will drown in what you give them, it doesn’t matter if it’s real or not. I am lucky that it always has an expiration date. 

Of course I like you, I’m just not good with my words. 

The Box gleams at this particular statement of non-truth. Hah. I feel it surge forwards and it takes hold of me. I told you before, it steals my truth. I am a writer, and he knew this. He always said I would be a writer, forgetting that it is my soul and that I already was. Perhaps that is why I nearly let him kill me once. Both of us smiled and he knew they were lies that I spoke. He knew words were not ever something that failed me. I think this is what he was thinking when his hand wrapped around my throat so tight I saw the stars and I was glad to be there. Like I said, I almost let him kill me. I didn’t fight. The hunger of the box had led me so far away. I was far enough away that I wanted to stay there. It was calm, and it hurt, but at least I couldn’t feel him fucking me anymore. Sometimes I wish he had killed me. I wanted my lifeless body to lie next to him. I wanted him to bear the consequences. He pushed for me to write them down. He shouldn’t have been surprised when I left the page blank. 

I no longer wish to let it destroy me. I no longer wish to prove it right. I know, logically of course, that I had no part in my own destruction. It was not me who strangled myself, who violated myself, who took my dignity and self-worth. Still, I refuse to believe that anyone is born bad. It was not my hands that dirtied my soul, only I gave myself over. How do I reconcile that? I did not tell them they could have me, but I let them believe they could. Still, the small girl in me cries there must be something bad in me. A badness that lives inside of me and turns people evil. I must have deserved it, is the sound that echoes all around. I cover my ears, but it does not stop. 

[britneywhitneyhoustanspears]

Can someone explain to me how a famous person who was an abuser dies and everyone forgets about it??!!??? “You cant say anything mean about them they’re dead!!” Ok and??? They were still a shitty person

[feministwinenight]

So, for anyone considering working in non profit, especially with triggering subjects like sexual assault and domestic violence; it's hard. Not just working with the women and men, which might feel draining. There is a large bureaucracy that essentially controls who you can help and what your resources are. It can also create really undesirable working conditions and apathetic directors/executives. If you are lower on the totem pole, you may feel powerless to help people or affect change. However, we need people who are passionate about this work in order to change the system for the better. It's not fair that jobs as hard as these don't come with more support, but I am here to say I believe in us and please don't give up. Also start self care as soon as possible and NEVER STOP.

[feministwinenight]

Alright feminists, does anyone feel conflicted at all about Beyonce? The sight of her singing "eat the cake Anna Mae" at the grammys made me feel nauseous, especially considering the number of women in DV relationships I've worked with.