Don't Speak 27
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, allusions to abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)
Character: librarian!Andy Barber
Note: stuff is going on at work (I'm not in trouble) but it's kinda dramatic rn so...
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)
Love you all. Take care. 💖
Dr. Kemp walks in with a cup of tea and puts it in front of you. He insisted on making it for you and you were too hazy to deny him. You're still reeling from your session with Andy and now you're struggling to reset before your one-on-one.
He smiles and backs away, slipping your journal from the table where you left it and bringing it to you. You take it as he claims the vacated armchair across from you.
"So," he leans an arm on the chair casually, "I know it's been a long morning. We'll try not to overwhelm ourselves, yes?"
You nod and look down at the journal. You're already there. You feel like folding over and shutting down.
"How are you feeling? Is it a lot?"
You swallow and mouth a 'yes', too weak to get much out. You can feel him watching you. You can't even look back at him.
"Right, I guess... there are some things we need to delve into. For your own good."
"Okay," you croak, resting your journal in your lap.
"Have some tea, get settled," he suggests.
You reach forward, keeping a hand on the notebook as you take the mug. You blow over the steam and inhale the scent. It smells different.
"I brought it with me, I hope you like apple cinnamon," he says.
Finally, your eyes flick up and meet his. He watches you expectantly so you take a dainty sip. You hum, it's tasty.
"Thank you," you say and put the cup back on the table.
"Not at all," he runs his fingers along the armrest, "I have a very sensitive question for you."
Your brows draw together. You stare at his neck. He takes a breath, chest rising and falling.
"How much experience do you have in intimate relationships?" He asks.
The room goes stolid as you blink. He waits as you clutch the book tight, nearly bending the hard cover. Your lip twitches and your lashes flutter.
"I..."
"I know it can be hard, but we need to talk about these things. It's obvious you have some shame associated with that part of your life and self. That's not healthy but we can't treat you if you don't talk about it," he explains, "so, you don't need to tell me everything. That's something else you can put in your journal, okay?"
"Okay," you agree, "I can do that."
"But I still want an answer. There are some things I do need to know," he prompts.
You hang your head. You bite your lip deep as you weigh how to say it. Really, it's simple.
"None," you murmur, staring at your toes, "no one wants me."
He hums thoughtfully, "maybe not before, but you must see now that that's changed. I think it's obvious how Andy feels... isn't it?"
You nod again, a lump in your throat.
"But let's not focus on him, let's talk about you. Just you. Is there anything that you've done... alone?" He leans forward, just a little.
You blanch, breathless as the room tilts. You know what he means. You can't believe it. He's only trying to help, right? He is a doctor after all.
You grab the mug, comforting yourself with the hot porcelain. You part your lips and close your eyes. Just be honest, he's not there to judge you. He might even be able to help you.
"Yes," you utter tightly, "not... much. I... I was scared... so... just a little... touch."
You hear him inhale, "right, good. Thank you for your honesty."
Your eyes snap open, "your welcome."
"Let's go over your homework," he stands and you shrink down just slightly.
You watch him as he slowly crosses the room. He has very nice eyes, you think, and his hair looks soft. There's something about him that is welcoming in that moment.
"Just a second, okay, sweetheart?" He holds up a finger.
You force a half-smile and wait as he leaves the room. He comes back with a small plastic bag. It's black and unmarked. You've never seen a bag like that.
"May I sit?" He approaches the couch. You wave to the cushion quietly, "so, this is what you're going to work on. If you're going to get more comfortable in your relationship, you have to get more comfortable with yourself." He puts the bag on top of your journal, "you can use that to... explore yourself."
You look down and stare. He laughs again, softly. "Go on and look, it's yours."
You hesitantly touch the seam of the bag. You trace your fingers to the top and lift up the edge. Your eyes widen as you see the small silver shape in plastic packaging. You think you know exactly what it is.
"I can't..." you begin.
"You don't have to use it but you do need to... experiment with yourself. It's healthy." He says, "but if you need it... you have it now."
You move the bag under your journal as if to hide it. You give a noncommittal nod.
"And you can write down how you feel after," he offers, "oh, and... I can give you my email? If you have questions outside our typical sessions. How about that?"
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a burgundy pen, "can I put it in your journal?"
You bite down and reluctantly put down your mug. You open your notebook to a blank page and hand it to him. He puts down his email and shuts the book, putting it back in your lap.
"You did a really good job," he gently brushes his knuckles down your sleeve, "what happened to that purple sweater? I haven't seen you in it."
You shrug, "Andy liked this better..."
"Well, you shouldn't wear what Andy likes, you should wear what makes you feel nice," he gives a tug on the sleeve and draws away, standing with a groan, "well, I think you've had enough of me. Go enjoy your tea, doctor's order."
You look up at him. You slide forward and take your mug, standing with trepidation as you watch him. He smells like a forest. You like it.
"See you next week, right?"
"Sure, next week," you agree before turning away. You're just happy to get some time alone. You feel like you haven't had much of that lately.
🕊️
"Dove," Andy's timbre undercuts the chirpy tones of your music. You look at the door and lower the pen from your tablet, tapping pause as your dread returns, "Steve's heading out. Why don't you come say goodbye?"
You put your tablet aside and push yourself heavily across the bed. You stand and drag your feet, the handle rattle before you can reach it. Andy opens the door from the other side.
"Sorry, I was drawing," you murmur.
"That's fine," he says, "he asked me to come get you."
"Alright," you shrug.
Andy's eyes fall to your new outfit; the one you'd chosen yourself that morning. You see the small twitch at the corner of his lips. You move past him as if to outrun his ire.
You go downstairs and find Dr. Kemp by the door, buttoning up his black wool jacket. He has a scarf around his neck and you recall the redness in his cheeks upon his arrival. You peer out the narrow pane beside the door.
"Is it very cold out?" You ask.
"Probably even colder now," he smiles with good humour, "I never mind it. Favourite time of year."
"Oh," you bounce on your feet, "Amber always says it's hot chocolate season."
He chuckles, "that's a good way of looking at it. Hot chocolate; I'll have to remember that next time I come."
"Oh, uh, no, you don't have to–"
"I didn't say I have to, but I want to," he assures, "you a marshmallow girl? Or you like whipped cream?"
You can't help a smile of your own, "either."
"Alright, I'll bring both," he promises, "I'm sure Andrew will stick with his dark roast."
Andy growls but doesn't argue.
"Well I see I've overstayed my welcome," Kemp says, "I'll leave you two alone. Oh, Andy," he continues as he checks his watch, "what did you need me to bring for Thanksgiving? You said no to the peach cobbler so I have to learn how to make something else."
"Bring whatever," Andy replies dismissively.
"Oh, now he changes his tune," he scoffs, "what's your favourite?" Kemp looks at you. "For thanksgiving?"
You think and suddenly feel very sad. You remember the little dinners you would have with Amber, just the two of you. She always made you your favourite dish even if it wasn't very traditional.
"Banana pudding," you eke out grimly, "but… it's not very seasonal, I guess."
"But delicious," he says, "you okay?"
"Yeah, I… I'm fine," you fold your hands in front of you, trying not to let your homesickness seep through. "I… I'll see you next time."
"Sure thing," he winks, "Andrew," he nods and shakes the other man's hand, "you take care of her. She's had a long day."
You stand, spaced out, his silhouette blurring as you hear the door open and close. You just want to lay down and not think. You don't even have the energy left to draw.
"Dove," Andy touches your sleeve, "what's going on?"
"Nothing, tired," you lie.
"Alright," he accepts dully, "maybe you should relax like he said. How about I run you a bath?"
You don't answer. You pass him and head up the stairs. You can't tell him the truth, you know it'll make him mad. You don't want banana pudding, you want Amber's banana pudding.
"Hey, talk to me," he follows you, "a nice bubble bath sounds nice, doesn't it? It'll help take the tension out."
"Fine," you mutter as you get to the top of the stairs and turn down the hall.
"Is that it? No thanks?" He says tersely.
"I'm sorry," you face him just as you get to your door, "thank you, Andy, I really appreciate it."
"Do you? I thought we were making progress."
"We…are," you frown.
"Uh huh, is that why you brought her up?" He challenges. You shake your head. "Amber… you mentioned her and now you're all upset about it."
You push your lip out, "I miss her."
"You're better off here, where you can get better."
"I know but… she's still my sister."
"Right, and how much do you think she cares? She's got a whole house to herself now. And you've got one too," he gestures to the walls, "you have to stop thinking of that place as home, this is your home," he insists, "so go grab some PJs and I'll get the tub going."
You dip your head. You’re just sad, you wish he would realise it’s not his fault. That you’re lost and you always have been. You don’t know who you are or where you belong.
“Thanks,” you whisper and turn to open the bedroom door.
“Grab some of your new pajamas,” he says.
You go inside and open the dresser. You didn’t fail to notice that it found its way back flush to the wall. That must’ve been when Andy took your journal. That thought bites at your sadness, instead sparking your anger. You still can’t understand why he would do that.
You stop as you open the drawer and stare inside. You sift through the neatly folded clothes. A frilly pink nightie, another pair of pajamas with shorts printed with tiny purple hearts, items you would never pick for yourself. You remember what Dr. Kemp said.
You push aside the new sets and pick out the pair of plaid jammie pants and the grey sweatshirt with Snoopy on it. That’s your favourite pair of pajamas. Amber had the shirt with Woodstock. You hug the fabric and use your hip to close the drawer.
You grab the same novel you’ve been trying to finish since you got here and go back into the hallway. You near the bathroom door and peek inside as Andy bends over the tub. You clear your throat and set your things on the counter.
He stands and shakes the water of his hand. You can smell lavender. He faces you and dries his hand on a towel. His eyes drift from you to the clothes on the counter.
“Oh, those are… cute.”
“I like em,” you wring your hands.
“Yeah, but… they’re old. You have all your new stuff.”
“There’s no holes,” you argue, “and it’s getting colder.”
“Sure, sure,” he crosses his arms, his sleeves snug to his biceps.
You keep your eyes to the floor and move to stand against the counter. You glance over at the door, waiting for him to leave. He hesitates, stopping just in front of you.
“Dove, is everything okay?” He asks.
You tilt your head and examine the tiles. Your pulse is erratic. You shouldn’t say it. It’s not a big deal. But Dr. Kemp says you should speak up.
“No,” you clasp your hands tight, “I’m… I’m… annoyed that you took my journal.”
“Oh,” he lets the single syllable hang, “is that it? I apologised.”
“Yeah, but… but you went into my room and you went through my stuff,” you say, your tone wobbly, “and that’s… that’s wrong.”
“Well, dove, your room? This is my house,” he corrects you, “it’s not like I was snooping. I just forgot to ask you to grab it so I did it myself.” He sighs, “you know, I love you but you make such a big deal out of things.”
“It’s a big deal to me,” you sniff, “and… and you didn’t mention Thanksgiving. I didn’t know– I didn’t know we would do that. I… what if I don’t want to?”
“Don’t want to. Sweetie, why wouldn’t you want to? It’s a holiday. Our first,” he puts his hands on his hips.
You’re quiet. You swallow tightly. You take a breath and release it slowly. Your heart flips and you feel the room shift.
“Can I invite Amber?” You ask so abruptly that you have to slap your hand over your mouth. The thought escapes so fast you can’t stop it.
“Amber?” He repeats bitterly. “Why would you wanna do that?”
“Well, Thanksgiving is for family and… and you said, I want to… I want…” you can’t catch your breath, “to— say… s-s-sorry.”
“Calm down, alright? Don’t be so dramatic. Why? Sorry for what?”
“For hurting her. Like I hurt you, right? That’s what you said.”
He looks away and your eyes flick up briefly. His jaw is set and his eyes are fiery. You shy away as he faces you again.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he backs up and grabs the door, “take your bath. Get your head straight.”
He storms out and slams the door. You whimper and stare at the painted wood. You’re so stupid. One step forward, a hundred backwards. You just can’t let things be good.
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