i saw a post on tumblr about harassment and i was really touched, so i decided to make this.


"no" does not mean "yes."

you cannot consent if you're drunk.

if someone's asleep, they cannot consent.

harassing someone whose gender preferences do not align with yours is still harassment (it's not okay to grope someone you're not sexually attracted to).

no reply does not equal consent.

someone inviting you into their room does not automatically equal consent.

if someone under the influence of drugs/alcohol initiates activity, break it off. that does not mean consent.

possible tw for attempted non-con, etc. nothing too graphic, really, but if it's not your cup of tea, then i'd suggest you don't read.

that's all i have to say. no one deserves to feel unsafe walking outside their house. that's it.

. . .

People like to look at Piper McLean if they pass by her, perchance, on the street. Piper hates it.

Sometimes there are grubby men who leer at her and sometimes there are envious women eyeing her, and there are other times when there are young men who whisper in her ears, "I can show you a good time."

Piper's lucky. When she tells them to "Go away, please," fearfully, they leave. She doesn't understand it, but she doesn't complain.

There are sometimes women, too. They'll look at her lustfully.

"You look like a prize," one says, smirking at her in a way she is not fond of.

"You don't," replies Piper. "Not interested."

And then there are the scruffy men who pull her into alleys and grope at her, but they release her almost reverently when Piper screams, "No!"

It's an odd thing, a terrible thing, Piper muses, that she is beautiful.

. . .

Drew Tanaka doesn't quite care who she gets with as long as it's a consensual thing, see? She doesn't care if it's a man or a woman or anyone of any other gender — people are who they want to be and that's that. Drew just likes a good time.

What is not a good time is when people look at her with attracted eyes, tell her, "I want you, honey," or even touch her where she doesn't want to be touched.

Drew's lucky, too. She snaps, "Stop," and they do.

The times Drew Tanaka cares who she gets with is when it's a non-consensual thing, see.

. . .

Lacy is not quite so lucky. She screeches sometimes, "Don't lay a finger on me, stop it!" but her pleas fall on deaf ears. No one listens.

Finally she tires of the game. Her feet are unrestrained. She kicks the perpetrators where it hurts. And she runs. Lacy runs and runs and runs.

They like to look at her. "You're a pretty little thing, honey," they say sometimes.

"Get away from me," Lacy says. No one does; if anything they come closer.

And Lacy will try, she really will, but sometimes they succeed in getting their scummy lips on her or touching her where she would really not like to be touched.

Lacy runs. She runs and runs and runs.

. . .

Mitchell had thought he was safe. He's wrong.

Everyone looks at him. Men, women, everyone. Anyone.

"So handsome, it's a shame," someone says. The voices blur into everything and anything and in between. Mitchell feels like he's fading sometimes.

The person moves closer. Mitchell backs farther.

"Don't be scared," the voice calls, and reaches a long, pale hand to his face, cupping his cheek.

"Get — get away!" Mitchell screams.

"Not a chance."

Mitchell tries to get away, to wriggle out of the person's mighty grasp, but he's small and he's just another pretty face, and he's not much of a fighter — but then there's another voice:

"Just what are you doing to that boy?"

The hands release him. The other voice whispers comforts — "Don't worry. People will be people, darling, but you'll be alright."

Mitchell feels like he's fading. He thinks he's already melted, sometimes.

. . .

This is the way it is. The Aphrodite kids learn to expect it. They learn to deflect it. They learn to get rid of it.

They shouldn't have to. But they do.

This is how they live.

"And people will be people…"

"You're quite pretty, you know, it attracts unwanted attention…"

"Maybe, then, you shouldn't be asking for it with that face and those clothes…!"

This is the way it is. They learn. They hate it; they shouldn't have to learn. But they do, and some days there is no one there to rescue them or whisper comforts to them but the wind — the bitter, harsh wind.