Timothèe Chalamet Imagines

✽saved✽

Trigger Warning: This depicts graphic description of sexual assault. Please do not read if this could be triggering in any way. This chapter is extremely dark and descriptive, so take this trigger warning seriously. I am not romanticizing sexual assault, and this was not written for purposes to make survivors feel like they need to be rescued. This is my own experience.

Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673

I updated this one and now I'm re-publishing it. This story coincides with my own, which is crazy to admit but this is all anonymous and you are all so kind :) It feels good to write about. If this is something you've been through, I understand. I am here for you. It gets better. I just felt like I owed it to you to write something more real, and I feel like I oppressed my true feelings and thoughts when I wrote the first version. This is extremely dark, and idk if it's allowed on this platform??? Please reach out to me if you want to talk. I love you all very, very much.

Your POV

I clutch the counter as I sway; I never drink, but I know that something about this feeling isn't right.

"Hey are you alright?"

Who's talking to me? Oh, right. This guy I just met.

"Um... yeah..." I answer, still holding the edge of the counter for support. My head feels heavy; all I want to do is lay down. Why is it so loud in here? And why is it so dark? I can't see anything in the dark. I can't even see what color the drink I'm holding is.

My drink.

Panic courses through some part of my brain, but I'm too tired to pay attention to it.

"Do you want to go upstairs?"

The guy is talking to me again. He has short blonde hair and very blue eyes, and before I answer he grabs my arm and starts to pull me out of the kitchen and through the mass of people towards the stairs. I stumble on the stairs, only just reaching my hands in front of me to catch myself. The guy picks me up and carries me like a baby up the stairs. I don't want to go upstairs with him.

"No... I want to go downstairs... where's Timmy?" I ask him. He doesn't answer. He smells like weed and booze, and the stench suddenly makes me realize how nauseous I am. He carries me into one of the bedrooms upstairs, and lays me down on the bed, shutting and locking the door behind us.

I feel even sicker as I stare at the ceiling above me. Why did we come here? I don't want to be here.

"I want to go back... downstairs..." I mumble, trying feebly to sit up. My arms shake underneath me, and I end up collapsing back down on the bed. What the fuck happened to me?

"No. We're going to stay up here," he says. There is no malice in his voice, but it is terrifying. No, no, no. This is not good. The lights are completely off, but I can hear him ripping off his shirt. Why is he taking his clothes off? I just want to sleep.

I feel the bed dip down with the weight of his knees on either side of my hips. Panic truly courses through me now.

"No..." I mumble, but it's getting even harder to move... and talk... and think.

"Yes," he whispers. His face is right above mine, and his hot breath fans over my face. I feel his rough, cold hands on the hem of my skirt. I want to throw up. Why did I wear a skirt? Why did I wear a tank top? Why did I wear a bralette? Why did I leave my best friend, Timothèe? Why did I come here at all?

I feel my tank top being ripped off of me, and my bralette follows seconds after. The cold air hits my bare skin like a thousand tiny knives. His hands slide further up my skirt, leaving it bunched at the base of my stomach.

He doesn't stop touching me; I try to scream but I can't tell if any sound comes out. I feel his touch all over my body - heavily groping my chest, raking down my stomach, and pushing his way inside of me. The only thing I feel is pure horror like never before. My eyelids feel heavy but won't shut.

I am surely dying.

This has to be what dying a miserable death feels like.

He doesn't stop pushing himself in and out of me. I am trying to scream, but I can't make any noise. Through all of the terror, I feel the physical pain of what he's doing. It feels like being ripped into millions of shreds.

There's a banging on the door. I can hear it. Someone is banging on the door. He loosens his grip on my wrists, which were pinned above my head as if I could move my arms to fight him of anyway. I hadn't realized how hard he was grabbing me until he abruptly stopped.

"Y/N?!" It's someone yelling in the hallway. Please. Please open the door. I feel his touch leave my body. His hands are off of me completely, and I hear him scrambling to get his clothes back on. Out of the corner of my eye, I make out his figure sliding the window open, and deftly slipping outside. Now I'm just sprawled across the bed.

Whoever is pounding on the door is doing it harder now. It suddenly bursts open, a flood of yellow light illuminating the room.

"What... Y/N..." a winded voice says. I can hear footsteps running towards me. I realize that my eyes have been closed, and I force them open. I see a mop of curls, and a tall, thin figure. I know him.

Timmy.

"Y/N... oh god... Y/N..." his voice cracks.

I don't say anything back to him. I can't say anything back to him. I try to groan in response, and all that comes out is a very quiet, weak whimper. Timmy quickly leaves my side walks to the other side of the room. I hear him puke in the trash can that's sitting in the corner. I open my eyes enough to see him doubled over, holding himself against the wall with one arm before he stands up again and walks over to me with ragged breaths.

"Can you hear me?" he asks weakly. His shaking hands hover to the side of me, wanting to do something but not knowing what.

I give him a slight, hazy nod. My body feels so strange. I can't figure out how much time has passed, or how much I'm moving my body. I know my thoughts are moving slower, but they seem normal to me. And I can feel the thudding pain throughout my body.

"What... oh god. Are you okay?" he asks.

Stupid question. I don't make any effort to use my remaining energy to answer it.

He takes his shaking fingers and gently pulls my skirt down so that it covers me again. It reminds me that I've been left on this bed, completely ravished and tarnished, in my most vulnerable state. I want to scream and cry. But my brain won't let me.

He unfolds one of the blankets on the bed, wrapping me in it snugly so that it completely envelops my body. Very slowly, he starts lifting me off of the bed.

"We have to get you out of here," he whispers to me.

I finally begin to cry. The physical pain and the shock of violation seem to rip my chest apart.

"It's okay. You're okay. You're safe now. It's going to be okay," he mutters, as he holds me bridal style, swaying me back and forth in the middle of the bedroom. I can hear him crying through his words. My head rests on his chest. He smells like rosewater and his cologne, which comforts an infinitesimal part of my mind. I can't feel my body. I can't comprehend my thoughts. All I feel is terror, and the sting of pure violation.

"We're gonna get you out of here... you're going to be okay," he whispers to me.

"Timmy..." is all I can mutter before my eyes completely close and my world goes dark.

I haven't mentioned that assault is a part of my past because it makes me sick to my stomach, but I'm trying to face my fears in a healthy way. for me, writing helps with that. I don't want to be a sob story; I know a lot of the things I share are uncommonly dark, but I also have a lot of joy and light in my life. I don't expect pity or anything like that, (but that doesn't mean your sweet comments and messages don't warm my heart more than anything). I am grateful for the strength that my experiences have given me. this is the real me, unfiltered. thank you for reading. thank you for the love. I cherish you all :) <3