#the librarians was GAS

[mrsimpstabler]

I need everyone to lock in to The Pitt like PLEAAAAAAAAASE guys PLEAAAAAASE

[antiquepearlss]

Thinking about the time my grandmother tried to convince my mother not to marry my dad because he was a part of the mafia.

[maegorsbignaturals]

Give us more hillbilly au, pls!!! And they 100% live in a trailer park, omg what would King's Landing be in that au??

Grrrr okay okay just because you are asking nicely. Drangonstone IS the trailer park, Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys leaved there when they scaped their parents and adfer some time they managed to get enough money to move to an old farm that was full of mold and it smelt rancid and that everyone was pretty sure the drains of that farm was poisoned. Aegon and Aenys both tried to fix it but failed and it was Maegor the one who maneged to fix it the most of it and paint it of the most lustruous red he could find. The faith is just your ye-old south baptist/christian church, and ceryse is the girl Maegor knew there. She was the niece of the pastor and sings in the choir and leads some program to teach the kids about religion, Alys is the queen of all the small beauty peageants the town holds and ends up having names like the queen of the corn or something on those lines, Tyanna is the weird woman that lives alone in the farthest part of the town that house smells weird and she has like at least seven different animals as her pets and everyone is DAMN sure she does some kind of witchcraft and they talk about her on her back but if they need an abortion they just go to her, Rhaena was the girl who always dreamed of living in The Big City with her (girl) friends and knowing all this beautiful movie places with really high builidings and have long rides on her Blue Vespa (Dreamfyre) in the streets of the big city, but her uncle had this horrible accident and now someone needs to take care of him and his costant headaches and Maegor borderline treats her just as he treated her Ceryse and Alys and it is kind of weird.

After Maegor weird ass dead where he is found on his couch holding a beer and being illuminated by the blue gleam of the Tv with at least dozen flies flying around him he takes over the farm and said you know what i think we can make something with this shit and that is how he ends up doing the greatest emporium of milk products kingislandingtown has ever seen in its entire existence. Baelon and Aemon are your typical Highschool number one football players that could have had a uni sports scholarship but Aemon got tackled really hard during a game having some kind of internal decapitation against Sunspear's community highschool and that took Baelon so out of the rails that he just ended up never leaving the farm.

[depresseddepot]

applying to more jobs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!haha :))))))))))))))))))

[intothestacks]

Cool Board Games for Your Library

Rory's Story Cubes – $18 CAD

Type: Dice Game  Players: 1-12 (2-4 ideal) Mechanics: Dice Rolling, Pattern Recognition Playtime: 20 min Age: 4+ Skills You Practice: Cooperation, Storytelling, Imagination, Pattern Recognition

There are various expansion packs (I’d highly recommend the Actions pack for ESL language practice). The expansion packs include Fantasia, Mystery, Heroes, Voyages, Astro, Harry Potter, Doctor Who, and Looney Tunes among others.

Why it’d be good for a library collection:

Popular topics

Family-friendly

Simple gameplay

Award-winner

Small storage space

Variable player size

Cheap

Great for use in programming with ESL patrons

[lovecanbesostrange]

TAG GAME: EIGHT SHOWS TO GET TO KNOW ME

I’m taking up @classichorrorblog ‘s open invitation for this

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Xena: Warrior Princess

Star Trek (top position Voyager)

Grey’s Anatomy

Once Upon a Time

Babylon 5

Agents of SHIELD

The Librarians

tagging @flusendieb @pneu-monie @myfawnwy @konako @professorspork @emilypemily @phoolhearty @heartsways and whoever feels up to it

[assassinationtipsforladies]

Hey dude, what the fuck are you talking about? I can't actually control the price of gas in rural areas with either my Tumblr posts or my food budget

We need to bring back private rail cars as the cool, sexy, exclusive way to travel, so instead of dumping the carbon budget of a small nation in the global south on private jets, celebrities have to attach their luxury pull an cars to the back of an Amtrak. Then the celebrities will lobby for Amtrak lines to be better

Seriously when did this

Become sexier than this

Like isn't it nice to watch the scenery, to be able to open a window and have fresh air, to be able to stand up all the way, not have your ears pop?

[mood2you]

I wonder who drives the books from one branch to the other in County Libraries... I wonder if it's a sinch to get if you have a CDL, if you need to volentueer a lot or if you need a degree

[avatar-aaang]

went to the fuckin clinic bc I feel awful and shes like yea sorry, its just leftover covid symptoms. nothing we can do. like oh okay. I mean I figured as much but I was kinda hoping thered be Something??? whatever. just to keep drinking water, eat as regularly as I can, etc. Ugh. Hate this.

Keep wearing your masks, keeping things clean, get your boosters, etc.

[inkskinned]

hello. you left a neon pink post-it with pgs 194-359 due 9/12 in the book, by the way. it is now May 23rd and the library's printer is running out of ink. it jammed and tore my passport application. one of the librarians dutifully blacked out all my information (front and back!) before proceeding to use every unmarred inch as scrap paper.

i think maybe our (plural, inclusive) lives are connected. all of them. i have been thinking a lot about borrowing. about how people move through the world in waves, filling in the same spaces. i have probably stood on the same subway platform as you. we held the same book. all of us stand in the same line at the grocery, at the gas station. how many feet have stood washing dishes in my kitchen?

i hope you are doing well. the pen you used was a nice red, maybe a glitter pen? you have loopy, curling handwriting. i sometimes wonder if it is true that you can tell a personality by the shape of our letters. i'm borrowing my brother's car. he's got scrangly engineer handwriting (you know the one). it's a yellow-orange ford mustang boss. when i got out of the building, some kids were posing with it for a selfie. i felt a little bird grow in me and had to pause and pretend to be busy with my phone to give them more time for their laughing.

i have a habit of asking people what's the last good book you read? the librarian's handwriting on the back of my smeared-and-chewed passport application says the glass house in small undercase. i usually go for fantasy/sci fi, but she was glowing when she suggested it. i found your post-it on page 26, so i really hope you didn't have to read up to 359 in that particular book. i hope you're like me and just have a weird "random piece of trash" "bookmark" that somehow makes it through like, 58 books.

i wish the concept of soul mates was bigger. i wish it was about how my soul and your soul are reading the same work. how i actually put down that book at the same time you did - page 26 was like, all exposition. i wish we were soul mates with every person on the same train. how magical to exist and borrow the same space together. i like the idea that somewhere, someone is using the shirts i donated. i like the idea that every time i see a nice view and say oh gosh look at the view, you (plural, inclusive) said that too.

the kids hollered when i beeped the car. oh dude you set off the alarm, oh shit is she - dude that's her car!! one was extremely polite. "i like your car, Miss. i'm sorry we touched it." i said i wasn't busy, finish up the pictures. i folded your post-it into a paper crane while i waited. i thought about how my brother's a kind person but his handwriting looks angry. i thought about how for an entire year i drove someone to work every day - and i didn't even think to ask for gas money. my handwriting is straight capital letters.

i thought about how i can make a paper crane because i was taught by someone who was taught by someone else.

the kids asked me to rev the engine and you know i did. the way they reacted? you would have thought i brought the sun from the sky and poured it into a waterglass. i went home smiling about it. i later gave your post it-turned-bird to a tiny child on the bus. she put it in her mouth immediately.

how easy, standing in your shadow, casting my own. how our hands pass over each other in the same minor folds. i wonder how many of the same books you and i have read. i wonder how many people have the same favorite six songs or have been in the same restaurant or have attended the same movie premier. the other day i mentioned the Book Mill from a small town in western massachusetts - a lot of people knew of it. i wonder if i've ever passed you - and didn't even notice it.

i hope whatever i leave behind makes you happy. i hope my hands only leave gentle prints. i hope you and i get the same feeling when the sun comes out. soulmates across all of it.

[rustedhearts]

keepsakes (boxer!steve harrington x fem librarian!reader)

summary: the heat goes out during an autumnal cold front in your new hawkins home, so you make the most of a cozy day at home.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the king of the ring (1995) ✶ the library ✶ ‘tis autumn

✶ roller girl’s pie stand!

tags: pure marshmallow fluff, allusion to smut at the end. akin to old boxer steve from ‘22

hawkins, indiana. october, 1995.

“They said they can’t get out until Tuesday,” Steve huffs, slamming the phone back into the receiver on the kitchen wall.

You groan into the steam furling from the ceramic pot on the stove. “Ugh, come onnnn.”

Steve shuffles into the room with a sigh, thermal-sleeved arms winding their way around your shoulders. They fold together over your chest, guiding you back against him. You let him tuck his mouth into your neck, lips warm, nose cold. You jolt a little when it brushes your skin, giggling when he huffs a harsh breath.

“Mm, I know, angel. But ‘m here to warm ya up,” he mumbles against your throat.

Each of you had enough layers on to keep decently toasty. What you could rummage out of boxes still taped up now sat in a messy pile on your bed upstairs. You hadn’t expected such a cold autumn and thought you had at least a few weeks before you had to break out the winter gear. But now a long sleeve turtleneck sits under a clove-scented 49ers sweatshirt, big and bulky and soft inside like you liked it. Your sweatpants are matching in black color, and you have your hair tied up just like Steve liked it.

He has a white t-shirt under a navy blue thermal that makes his hair seem more chestnut than usual. His sweatpants are grey, the Jimmy’s Gym logo on the top right thigh cracked and faded from wear. You have a pair of his white socks on, and you think it’s adorable that the pair of you have matching feet right now.

Steve presses a noisy kiss to the column of your throat. His hair tickles your chin and makes you laugh again.

“Whatcha got planned today, hmm?”

You stir the wooden spoon through your soup again. “Guess.”

Steve hums thoughtfully, lifting from your neck to squint at the tile. “Hmm, if I had t’ guess, I’d say…reading in that ‘lil window upstairs, pretending you aren’t freezin’ your ass off.”

You scoff, cheeks warming. “N-no…”

“No?” Steve tips his head and kisses your cheek this time. “Saw the book already out. Waitin’ for you. Can’t you hear it calling, baby? All those words you have to read.”

You giggle, squirming in his arms. “Stop, don’t make fun of me.”

You click the gas off and Steve coos, clutching you a little tighter. His cheek is lukewarm when it presses to your temple.

“Aww, my ‘lil nerd. ‘s okay, angel, you know your librarian glasses are so fuckin’ sexy.”

You clutch the handle of the ceramic pot and veer toward the counter, where two mismatched bowls are waiting. Steve gets the hint, matching your steps until you’re moving together. You tip the pot and pour equal amounts of the chicken soup into each bowl, splattering noodle and broth drippings as you go. The window above the sink beside you is beginning to fog with the warmth of the stove. Beyond it, your neighbor’s tree is a vibrant yellow. Shedding pointed leaves across the yard, stuck in the jagged edges of the wooden fence. They gather on Steve’s BMW window, suctioned to the glass with this morning’s rain. The sky’s still a muddled grey, and you have all the lamps and candles lit in the house.

Steve somehow always gets horny in candlelight.

“My librarian glasses? Grab some spoons, please, baby?”

Steve takes one arm from your chest to lean to the left and open the utensil drawer. He gathers two spoons in his hand and nudges it shut, immediately returning to ensure both arms are back in place.

“Yeah. ‘s a good thing, baby, I promise.”

You take the spoons dangling near your collarbone and plop one into each bowl.

“Stevie, can you take ‘em? They’re hot.”

Steve takes a bowl in each hand around your sides and reluctantly pulls away from you. The pair of you whirl around and head for the dining room, a bowl clunking onto a plaid placemat at each assigned seating. Yet as you pull your chair out and go to sit, a pout appears on Steve’s face. He hasn’t even touched his chair.

“What?” you giggle.

“I just…you’re so far away.”

“I’m literally right here.”

“Too far,” he huffs. He swings around and directs his gaze toward the living room. “Let’s go sit on the floor.”

A soft smile touches your face, that glowing warmth gathering in your cheeks again. Oh, something about the cold made Steve so sweet.

“You wanna have a carpet picnic?” You beam.

Steve tips his head back and rolls his eyes. “You and that damn movie—yes, angel, we can have a carpet picnic.”

“Yay, okay! Take the bowls, please.”

He hides his grin against the back of your head when you flounce your way into the living room, forgetting all about the goosebumps and shivers you endured when you woke up to a frozen house this morning. You peel the throw blankets off the back of the couch and lay them on the carpet, smoothing out any wrinkles you know Steve will replace in just a few moments.

The bowls are placed on the coffee table, a folded napkin under each. Steve waits patiently at the corner of the blanket, knowing you’ll let him know when he can join.

The lamplight above you catches and glows on your left hand. On the diamond glimmering on your second smallest finger, haloed with beams of orange. When you lift your hands and pass the flames of the fireplace, amber rays pierce through the crystalline gem.

Steve watches all the while. Watches you move your hands, knowing soon your diamond will rest above a wedding band. In a mere month, just a few short weeks—you’ll be his wife.

The thought alone has Steve sinking to his knees. You whip around to scold him for interrupting your process, but squeak in surprise when he catches your face and kisses you. He smells like cold air and leaves and vaguely of the Marlboro smoked a few hours ago. He smells like Steve.

When he pulls away, you sit back on the blanket and grin. “What on earth was that for?”

Steve assumes the spot across from you, kicking his legs out beside you. He reaches for the soup bowls and carefully places yours near your tucked-in knees.

“What was what for?”

You scrape your teeth over your bottom lip and laugh. “Never mind.”

You turn your attention to the chicken noodle soup and Steve turns back to you. Watches through his lashes as you lift your hands and wipe away wisps of hair on your forehead. Black sleeves curled over your knuckles to keep warm, your fingers appear beneath them in delicate form. He wishes to do nothing but kiss them and stare more at that ring.

“Is it not good?”

Steve blinks, lifting his spoon. Your lips are shiny with broth and oil, eyes rounded in his direction. They catch the fire like your ring and they make Steve swallow hard.

“N-no, baby, ‘s good.” He quickly shovels a spoonful of the soup in his mouth to prove it.

You do a little squirm and smile that makes Steve chuckle. He hunches over his lap to slurp the broth and you wrinkle up your nose.

“Ew, Steven.”

His spoon clinks against the bowl when he drops it.

“Heyyy,” he warns playfully. “Don’t start. There was no attitude at their carpet picnic.”

You giggle. “No, but there was a blowjob if I remember correctly.”

Steve lowers his bowl completely, eyes suddenly alert. “Well, that’s welcome any time.”

Broth bubbles with laughter in your bowl. Steve watches you take small, quiet spoonfuls. When he decides you were only joking and there won’t be an immediate gratification for his Pretty Woman joke, Steve goes back to his soup, too.

Soon the soup is gone and the bowls sit empty on the table. You stretch onto your stomach and place your head on Steve’s lap, allowing his fingers to work over your hair. He pulls it free from its confines and smooths it down. Massages your scalp until your eyes flutter. The flames of the fire rest in dancing orange shimmers on your face.

The rain begins again. It comes with a great howling wind, rushing through the trees and shaking colors loose. The house darkens to near nighttime degree. A grey darkness that turns all the candle flames and lamplight in the room warm.

“Will you read to me, Stevie?” you inquire softly.

Steve’s fingers lag in your hair. He shifts, resting back on his palm.

“Uh…I mean—you sure? Y’ know ‘m not very good at it.”

You let your eyes close and smile to yourself. “I’m sure. I love the sound of your voice.”

Steve smooths his palm over the crown of your head, cupping it. With your eyes closed, he’s free to grin down at you and know it’s just for him. Do you have any idea what you do to him?

“Gonna let me up then?”

You hum. “In a minute.”

“Okay,” he murmurs in agreement.

He holds you there a moment longer, watching the fire warm your face; your socked feet cricketing together at the edge of the blanket contentedly.

“Okay,” you say, pushing yourself up. “Now you can go.”

Steve rolls his eyes as he stands. “Spoiled. What am I getting?”

“You pick. I’m gonna bake some cookies.”

Steve watches you bounce back toward the kitchen with both soup bowls. “Well Jesus, have a little faith in me. I know my way around your shelves.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, setting the bowls in the sink. “You want chocolate or snickerdoo—“

Your words die on your tongue, slipping between Steve’s lips. He pinches your jaw in one hand and holds you still, mouth forced to pucker for his gift. He hums when he nips at your bottom lip, licking at his own when he releases you.

“Somethin’ t’ think about while ‘m gone,” he says, a heavy hand popping across the fat of your asscheek before he turns around.

Steve heads toward the stairs, ascending them while doing his best to crane over the railing and watch your flushed reaction until he no longer can. He immediately walks to your library–much smaller than the one back in California, but somehow it captured the girl he met in this very town better than anything in the sunshine state ever could—and directs his attention to your stuffed shelves.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for, and stands for a while just staring aimlessly at the spines with his hands on his hips. He hears you clink and clang around in the kitchen. The beep of the oven. The slam of the oven door. It’s much colder in the library, and Steve swears there’s a draft in your window seat.

He turns to inspect it, pressing one hand firmly on the cold, foggy glass. As he leans over the plaid fabric of your window seat, his thigh nudges the corner of a leather-bound journal. He recognizes it immediately as the same journal always kept on the bedside table and in the bottom of your purse. It's always next to you so long as you can help it.

When he spins it with his finger, the Polaroid used to keep your last page inches its way to the edge. Steve slowly and carefully pulls it from the pages.

He sinks into the window seat when he's met with his own face.

Six years old now, the photograph is still as perfectly intact as the day it was taken. The flash collects in a younger Steve's eyes, making them appear darker than they really are. The film softens the emerald and violet bruise kissing his left cheek that Steve vividly remembers taking weeks to disappear completely.

He knows immediately where he's standing, where the photograph was taken by the color of the wall alone. The soft ballerina pink, the edges of rosebuds from now-outdated wallpaper. The arched mirror of your vanity rests just behind his shoulders, stretched and puffed broadly with the flex of his arms. Though the muscles are concealed beneath a heavy black sweatshirt, embroidered with his recent champion title.

And in the glossy white border just below his stomach where the photograph completes, remains your handwriting.

My boyfriend husband ♡

"Steeeve? Did you find one?"

Steve quickly clambers to his feet, shoving the Polaroid back into its place in the journal. He grabs the book you had sitting on your rumpled blanket on the cushion.

"Yeah, coming!"

His footsteps clunk down the stairs, and he's met with the scent of warm cinnamon when he finds you in the kitchen, wiping down the counter.

You spin with the rag in hand and a small grin. “Hey, did you find one?”

Steve sets the book on the counter gently. Your eyes turn to inspect the cover, surprised to see one of your “stuffiest” options waiting. Steve hates Dracula, and he hates attempting to read anything written before 1950.

Before you can question his choice, Steve takes a slow step toward you.

“How long do the cookies have?” he asks.

You glance at the timer. “Um…ten minutes, why?”

His hands smooth over your waist, thumbs pressing into your stomach. He grips you firmly, stepping until he can fit his head in your neck again. His response comes in the form of his mouth on your throat—latching on with his hot, wet suction. You gasp, hands flying to touch him: one gripping the front of his shirt and the other tangling in his hair.

He hums, releasing your skin to kiss it gently. He moves down, dragging his nose over your skin. His suction returns to the junction between your neck and shoulder, where the tendons are soft and waiting to be bitten. You jolt with a quiet squeak, grip tightening on his collar.

“St-Steve—“

“Shhh.” He moves one hand from your waist to your chin and tips it away to make room for his head on the other side of your throat. “‘s nine minutes now, angel. Come lay down f’ me so we can make the most of it.”

He takes your hand and leads you to the living room again, and you follow silently. Nearly hypnotized by his softness, tongue swollen dumbly in your mouth.

He takes both your hands to lower you down to the station of your carpet picnic. You thump to your knees, and he follows suit only to lay you on your back with his hand supporting the back of your head. When you’re flat, you blink up at him with bated breaths.

Steve smiles, fingers curling into the elastic band of your sweatpants. The house seems hotter than ever, a flaming warmth coating your body as his touch drags down your thighs with your clothing.

“Don’t worry. Your husband’s gonna take care o’ you, angel.”

[yvain]

Towards the end of the film, Charlie realizes her uncle is a killer. She not only comes to see that he is a serial murderer but also that he wishes to kill her, having cut through her staircase and locked her in a gas-filled garage. This forces Charlie to discover her own murderous potential, as she calmly warns her uncle that she could kill him herself, thus reflecting the vampire’s ability to contaminate others, especially innocent females. Indeed, at one point in the film, Charlie does seem to have taken on characteristics of the vampire for, having become suspicious of her uncle, Charlie decides to visit the local library in order to check a newspaper story which she feels pertains to her charismatic relative. Charlie runs to the library, encountering the ire of a local policeman after she jaywalks, a transgression which is quickly followed by another, for Charlie arrives at the library after the end of opening hours and has to beg to be let in, echoing the vampire’s traditional asking for admittance. Therefore, Charlie has experienced two negative interactions with those who maintain law and order—a policeman and a librarian—and though the rules Charlie has broken are undoubtedly low-level, they do, nonetheless, signal that Charlie is now willing to act outside of the law and, if necessary, to take on the role of renegade while searching for the truth about her uncle. Charlie’s new-found willingness to disrupt society reveals how proximity to Uncle Charlie is corrupting. The librarian allows Charlie to enter the building, whereupon Charlie finds circumstantial evidence that Uncle Charlie is a killer: initials etched on the ring he produced earlier in the film match the initials of one of the Merry Widow Murderer’s victims. […] Charlie now acknowledges her uncle’s murderous qualities and, momentarily, she exhibits vampire-like qualities of her own, for, following the night-time visit to the library, Charlie sleeps all through the next day and does not wake until sundown. Having transformed to some degree into a dangerous creature, Charlie now has the power to harm her uncle, for the ring, which was a symbol of unity, is now both an object of conflict and a symbol of her empowerment. The ring is proof of her uncle’s crimes, and as long as Charlie keeps possession of the ring, she has power over her uncle.

Victoria Williams, “Reflecting Dracula: The Undead in Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt,” in Images of the Modern Vampire: The Hip and the Atavistic (eds. Barbara Brodman and James E. Doan)

[nvareim]

bite me, v. garza x fem! reader

tags; predator/prey, fearplay, dacryphilia, degradation, drugging, thigh riding, stalking, dubcon and toxic dynamics. MDNI w/c; 4.4k ao3 link | pinterest board a/n; never arguining with a woman with big brown eyes, whatever u say gorgeous

The streets of Las Almas are still blood-stained the day you escape.

It’s been quieter since the Shadows combed through the city, killing anything that moved. The dogs no longer bark, kids don’t play in the streets, and the armed men who roamed every alley are few and far between. It’s the perfect opening. You spend the morning preparing. 

You pack lightly, only the things you’re sure you’ll need. Clothing for layering, socks, underwear, and cash. It all fits nicely in a backpack you can easily carry. You leave both of your phones on the nightstand, the backs pried off and batteries neatly stacked atop each other. 

The better part of an hour is spent prying at the metal collar around your neck. You pry at the latch until your fingers are bloody, picking at the screw that holds it together. As a last resort, you use the point of a utility knife. You sit just inches away from the mirror, neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle as you slowly unscrew the locking mechanism. You’re stock-still, barely breathing out of fear the blade will slip. 

 The second the collar unlatches, you rip it from around your neck and throw it aside. It slides across the floor, hitting the baseboard with a heavy thud. You take deep, ragged breaths as you study your reflection. The lack of weight around your neck is foreign. With it gone, your decision is final. There’s no turning back now.

Las Almas is teeming with Mexican soldiers. They pace the Greyhound station, X12s strapped to their thighs and rifles slung across their chests. Their watchful eyes follow you as you pay for your ticket in cash with shaky hands. The old woman in the booth hardly scrutinizes your forged papers, clicking away at her keyboard as she logs information. She slides your ticket through the opening in the plexiglass, wishing you a safe trip. 

You practically fall onto a bench, sighing as you hug your bag close to your body. Rain pours down from the roof, streaming toward the storm drains. The air is thick and warm with moisture, heavy on your skin. You bounce your knee nervously as you wait for the bus to round the corner. 

When it does arrive, you’re the first to board. You snag a window seat at the very back where you can watch every passenger enter. You hold your breath with each new rider, nervously anticipating Valeria or one of her men to be the next passenger. It isn’t until the bus is pulling away from Las Almas that you feel the weight lift from your chest, though just barely.

Your journey north becomes a slow crawl. The best ticket you could afford brought you just north of Denver. The rest of your cash is rationed out and stuffed beneath your clothing.

In the beginning, the kiss of cool air against your skin is refreshing. It’s a welcome reprieve from the sweltering Mexican heat. A reminder of how far you’ve gotten. But the novelty quickly wears off once the slight chill turns unforgiving. You attempt to adapt by picking up a free coat from a local church and bartering over warmer clothes from thrift stores, but they only do so much to protect you from the bitter cold. Homeless shelters aren’t an option, the lines are longer as the dead of winter draws nearer. By the time you reach Wyoming, you’re running low on money to spend. You resort to stealing food from gas stations and sleeping in alleyways. You spend your days in local libraries, reevaluating your route north and searching for updates on Valeria. Librarians typically quirk a brow at your peculiar behavior, but leave you alone until they close down for the night. 

As the nights grow longer, they become even more difficult to get through. You curl yourself into a ball, your money stuffed into the band of your bra and a knife clutched tightly in your hand lest anyone gets any ideas. Hostels are few and far between and only reserved for nights you’d surely die if you slept outside. 

In early December, you spend a decent chunk of your food budget on a cheap motel room. It’s a shady establishment just outside of a small city, the kind of place you pay for by the hour. Snow flutters down and gathers in the parking lot, the pure white flakes quickly soiled by the gravel beneath. Multicolored Christmas lights are wrapped around the wrought iron railings in honor of the upcoming holiday. A few women smoke in the shadows of the building, seemingly huddling together for warmth. 

Inside the room, The wallpaper peels away to reveal yellow-stained drywall beneath and the heating unit rattles when you turn it on, blowing a small cloud of dust into the room. You refuse to peel away the comforter out of fear of what you’ll find, so you toss a blanket overtop instead. The lingering stench of cigarette smoke and artificial lemon is nearly caustic. 

 You turn the TV on, upping the volume until it’s loud enough to drown out the noise of the heater. The throw beneath you is scratchy and thin, but the bed itself is comfortable enough that you allow yourself to sink into it. With so many miles between you and Valeria, it’s easy to lull yourself into a sense of false security.

You shrug your jacket off to use as a makeshift pillow. It’s a far cry from Valeria’s luxurious bed back in Las Almas, but it’s the best you’ve had in weeks. The steady flow of warm air filling the room thaws the stiff joints in your limbs and loosens the long-held tension in your shoulders. It’s easy to fully settle into the makeshift pillow, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. It’s the best sleep you’ve gotten in weeks.

It’s pin-drop quiet when you wake up. The constant hum of the heating unit has ceased, though the room has long gone cool. The TV had been shut off, leaving the room completely dark. 

You blink away the last bits of sleep from your eyes, willing your vision to focus. Something primal stirs in your gut, fight or flight instincts urging you to move. The darkness comes into focus slowly, the shape of the furniture comes into focus. So does a figure sitting at the foot of the bed. 

Your blood freezes in your veins. You push yourself up from the bed, heart pounding in your ears. A firm hand wraps around your upper arm, throwing you back into the mattress. The springs squeak from the force. You kick and thrash in Valeria’s hold, desperate to land at least one hit. You refuse to go down without a fight, not after all you’ve been through. You manage to land a single scratch across her cheek. Blood bubbles up from her skin, smearing onto your fingers and her face when you push her away. 

One of her hands pins both your wrists to your sternum as she bears down on you. Her knees press into the mattress on either side of you, caging you in place. You take in a gasping breath, lungs struggling to expand under her weight. For the first time, you get a good look at Valeria and what you see terrifies you. There’s a feral glint to her eyes and not a bit of playfulness in her smile. Your heart pounds against your ribcage like a rabbit. 

“You scream and I’ll gut anyone who comes in that door,” Valeria hisses, hand tightening around your wrists as she wraps a zip tie around them. Tears spill from your waterline as composure crumbles. The edge of the tie presses into your skin uncomfortably, but Valeria doesn’t soften at your whining.

“It was a fun chase, sweetheart, but it’s over,” She fishes a small bag from her pants pocket, shaking a small white pill into her palm. Valeria holds it to your lips with one hand, the other pinching your nose shut. You go as long as you can without air, stubbornly clenching your jaw shut until your lungs burn. 

Valeria watches with interest, grinning as the seconds tick by. You barely make it a minute before you’re gasping for air. Valeria doesn’t waste a moment before she’s pushing the pill past your lips and pressing her palm over your mouth before you can spit it out. Her fingers still pinch your nose shut, her grip unyielding against the restrained fists that pound against her chest.

“Swallow, baby,” She goads as black creeps into the edges of your vision. By now, the pill is reduced to bitter white chunks on your tongue, but you make a show of swallowing to satisfy her. The reaction is almost instantaneous, her fingers prodding past your lips as you desperately gulp down oxygen. Her fingers taste like sanitizer and lotion as she inspects your gum line and beneath your tongue. You cringe away from her touch but with the bed beneath you, there’s nowhere to go. 

When she’s confident you swallowed, she gives you a quick pat on the cheek. The corner of her lips twitch up in only a ghost of a grin before she’s hauling you to your feet and bending you over her lap. You huff, balance thrown off kilter by the sudden movement and lack of oxygen. Valeria’s knee digs uncomfortably into your stomach and ribs. A hand wraps around your upper arm, holding you firmly on her lap. 

“You thought I wouldn’t hunt you down?”  She asks, free hand trailing down the curve of your spine. Her chipped and jagged nails drag across your skin, leaving raised lines in their wake. Fingers curl around the waistband on your sweatpants, gripping tight. You kick your legs, gritting out empty threats as she pulls them down. She tugs until the cleft of your ass is exposed to the stale air.

“I’m sorry,” You sob into the comforter, tears wetting the scratchy blanket. You sound like a broken record, the apologies spilling from your mouth only broken up by promises to never do it again.

“I don’t believe you,” Valeria coos, a condescending smile playing at her lips. She splays her hand against your ass cheek, lightly pressing into the soft flesh until it dimples beneath her fingertips. Her grip on your arm has tightened enough to be bruising.

The heat between Valeria’s thighs only heightens at the sight of you draped over her lap. Idly, she considers the merits of a more sadistic punishment. Purpled bite marks across your shoulders would certainly remind you who you belong to. Or maybe nice ‘V’ carved into the soft fat of your ass. Both would crush your little attitude beneath her boot. Ultimately, she decides to stow those thoughts away for now, saving them for when you’re back home with her. It’d be easy to go overboard now, with the adrenaline and anger rushing through her bloodstream. For now, she just wants to make you cry. 

The first hit comes when you least expect it. The impact sends a ripple through the soft flesh of your ass. Valeria groans lowly at the sight. Your hips jump at the sensation, skin going hot beneath Valeria’s palm. The strike has you screeching, thrashing beneath her in a futile attempt at an escape. You clench and unclench your restrained fists.

“Count.” Her brown irises are swallowed by her dilated pupils, trained in the spot where her hand met your cheek. The heat of your skin bleeds into Valeria’s cold palms, goosebumps popping up across your exposed skin. 

“What the fuck?” You squeal, humiliation and fear petering into indignation. It’s not a surprise to Valeria, she’d always known there was a bit of you that needed training. You were impatient, even selfish at times. A wily little thing she enjoyed wrestling into submission. The brattiness was endearing in her own bed, but after the past few weeks, it only stokes her anger. 

“Count,” She repeats, a little louder this time. “Count and maybe I won’t fucking chip you.” The twist of anger in your expression has her raising her hand again, coming down in a perfect arc to hit the same spot again. You shriek into the bedding, fingernails sinking into your clammy palms. Valeria’s arm tightens around you, dragging you even further into her lap. “Not gonna do it?” She brings her hand down three more times, alternating which side she hits to keep you on edge. “You think I’m lying? Tracked you down like a fucking dog, tell me why I shouldn’t treat you like one?” 

“Won’t do it again, Val,” You sob. “Please, I’m sorry!” Hot tears stream down your flushed face, mixing with the drool smeared across your chin and mouth. Your voice cracks with the force of your crying. Valeria grows impossibly wetter, slick dampening the gusset of her panties. 

“Then start counting.” Your fingers claw at the blanket as she strikes you again. There’s no screech or resistance when her palm hits you, just sniffling. The seconds drag by like hours as Valeria waits with bated breath, hungrily watching the tears spill from your eyes. 

“ One .” Valeria releases your chin and you press your cheek to the mattress. She groans at your thin voice, hoarse from all your yelling. Her palm rubs soothing circles over the spot she’d just hit, contrasting the rough treatment just seconds prior. A shudder runs up your body at the sensation, eyes screwed shut. 

“Good girl,” She murmurs, lips curling into a predatory grin. The next hit has you tensing up beneath her, stammering out a low two . There’s still some resentment buried beneath your submission. It shows in the impudent curl of your lips, the angry furrow of your brow. The quiet whimper that slips your mouth before three is delicious. It appeases Valeria’s growing appetite.  

By ten , you’ve run out of tears. The quiet groans spilling from your throat have a knot winding in Valeria’s stomach. Your ass is marred with her handprints, raised marks from the trauma. Come time, they’ll darken into bruises, the sting of red-hot flesh fading to an overwhelming ache. And every time you see them, you’ll be reminded of your mistakes. Valeria loosens her grip on you, knowing you won’t even try to run. 

By fifteen , your eyes have glossed over and your thrashing has ceased. The numbers are whispered through gritted teeth between quiet grunts, attitude fully snuffed out by Valeria’s hand. A little pain and you’re her good girl again, all sweet and pliant beneath her. Your inner thighs are dewy with the slick that leaks from you, dribbling down your cunt to your swollen clit. 

There’s no resistance as she hauls you to your feet, hands placed beneath your armpits like you’re a doll. You brace your hands on her shoulder, legs too shaky to keep you upright. Valeria tugs your panties and sweatpants up, brushing the bruised curve of your ass too firmly to be accidental. You shift a little, lurching forward to escape the pain. 

Valeria grabs you by the hips, dragging you into her lap. You let out a little yelp upon resting your ass against her thighs, the sudden weight against the raw skin overwhelming. For a moment, you hover, but Valeria presses you down firmly, ignoring the way you wriggle away. Once the pain subsides, you practically meld into her, head resting in the crook of her neck as you sniffle. Valeria brushes the hair from your face, damp with tears and cold sweat. Your limbs are loose, heavy with warmth that emanates from the pit of your stomach.

“Why’d you run?” She murmurs, dragging her splayed palms up and down your thighs. When you don’t reply, she tugs your head from the crook of her neck, hand cradling the base of your skull. Valeria studies you with her dark eyes, searching for a flicker of resistance in your lachrymose gaze. She finds nothing. “Hm? What was it?” 

“I was scared,” The words slip out before you can consider them. It’s an admission only made more pathetic by your thin voice. Something in Valeria’s gaze shifts as her lips press into a line. Her hand tightens on the back of your neck. The weeks of false composure fracture when faced with her dilated pupils, only a thin rind of warm brown surrounding them. The fear hits you like a cold wave, washing over your body as the words are spilling from your chest. 

“I-I didn’t know if it was safe for me to stay,” You stammer out, clenching your hands into fists in an attempt to ward off the tremors overtaking you. “I was worried that maybe they’d come for me next and you wouldn’t be there, Valeria, and I-” The corners of her lips tug up into a smug, satisfied grin and your words are cut short with a stifled sob. 

It’s not a lie, but not quite the truth either. Valeria can see it in the split second of hesitation before you speak. There’s fear there, but not fear of her enemies. No, she saw that terror in your wide-eyed gaze when you realized she had been the one to find you. 

“Oh, mi vida ,” Valeria coos, a hand coming up to cradle your cheek. Her thumb brushes away the few tears rolling down your face. Her other hand brushes up and down your side, dipping beneath the fabric of your shirt. “You thought you’d be safer running?” You sniffle as she squeezes at the fat of your hip. “This,” She gestures to the room around you with a sardonic chuckle. “This is worse than if you stayed put. I can’t protect you when I don’t know where you are.”

“I’m sorry.” You say for the millionth time. It’s the only response your brain can formulate. She’s right, running only left you more vulnerable to people who would use you to reach Valeria. But she doesn’t take your fear of her into consideration, even with the marks spread across your ass cheeks. 

“I believe you,” She says, “But it’ll take more than an apology to make me trust you. You understand, right?” 

You nod, eyes cast downward in shame.

“Good girl,” She tugs at your lower lip with her thumb. “Missed you s’much, you know?” She purrs, pressing two fingers past your lips. Your jaw widens to accommodate the push of her finger against your tongue. “Was so excited to see my girl. Bet you can imagine how I took the news, hm?” Drool gathers behind your teeth, dripping down your chin as Valeria ‘accidentally’ bumps your gag reflex. You lurch, but her fingers remain firmly hooked in her mouth. You don’t have the energy to resist her, any coherent thought slipping from your grasp before you can make sense of it. 

“So pretty like this,” She muses. Valeria adjusts you like a doll, one hand grabbing and moving your limbs until you're straddling her thigh. “You know who owns this cunt, don’t you?” Her other hand grips your hip, rolling it against her muscled thigh. Valeria laughs at your garbled moan as pleasure sparks in your core. “Just my stupid little pet that doesn’t know what’s good for her.” 

“M’not,” You slur, fingers curling into the collar of her shirt. She continues the slow pace, occasionally bouncing her knee to relish in your yelps. The heat in your stomach only grows. Electricity shoots up your spine when Valeria perfects the angle, pressing the seam of your pants against your clit just right. You moan around her fingers, lips and chin shiny with spit. In the weeks you spent running, pleasure had been an afterthought. You never had the time or privacy to worry about getting yourself off. The neglect left you swollen, sensitive, and all too receptive to Valeria’s touch. 

“Really?” She coos, slowly pulling her fingers from your mouth. They come to rest on your other hip, fingers dampening the fabric beneath them. “Grinding your cunt on me like a dumb mutt, aren’t you?” With a firmer grip on you, she presses your cunt even harder on her thigh, rocking you back and forth. You mindlessly follow her movements, chasing your high. 

Valeria studies the pinch of your brow and pitch of moans, watching every minute expression that crosses your face. Your thighs tighten around her own, desperately humping at her. Quiet pants escape your swollen lips, your head hangs low, and your eyes shut. The languid pace is entirely your own, she’s barely moving you along.

When your moans take a higher pitch, fingers tugging at her shirt, she knows you're close. Valeria’s hand comes to pull at your hair, tugging your head back and exposing the bare column of your throat. Her jaw clenches upon noticing your collar’s absence. She meets your wide eyes, your scleras flushed red and pupils dilated. Your pace falters, but Valeria prompts you to keep going with a bounce of her leg. 

“Please,” You whimper. “Wanna come.” The desperation in your voice is palpable. It’s pathetic enough to have Valeria pitying you. It’s hard for you to keep your grip on her shirt, your muscles seem to have a mind of their own. Your restrained hands fall to your lap, numb and warm as you continue to grind. 

“Yeah?” She taunts. “You wanna cum on my thigh?” Her fingers dance up your shirt, calluses brushing over your fluttering abdomen as she makes her way to your breasts. You part your lips when her fingers toy with your hardened nipples, plucking and twisting the sensitive buds. 

“Mhmm,” You nod, eyes fluttering shut. Your tongue is too heavy to form a proper response. By now, your head has gone cottony and light, filled with nothing but Val. It’s hard to even remember how you got into this situation or even recognize the dull ache of your bruised ass on every grind. Her body heat is suffocating, the scent of her perfume leaving you drooling. Valeria can see the distant look in your eyes, so she lets your lack of verbal response slide. She dips her head to your shoulder, pressing wet kisses along the curve of your neck.

“Please,” You manage to wail, repeating the word until your voice gives out on you. Valeria’s teeth glint in the moonlight as you come, nipping at the thin skin above your pulse point. Your wetness soaks the crotch of your panties, leaving them wet and sticky along the curve of your folds. The heat bleeds through your pants, warming Valeria’s thigh. 

When your hips stop twitching and your breath slows, you slump into Valeria. The hand beneath your shirt traverses up and down your spine as you hiccup and cry. Shame curdles in your stomach, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. Valeria presses soft kisses to your cheek, slowly making her way to your chapped lips. 

The kiss is sloppy and almost entirely one-sided. You struggle to keep up with her, clumsily tilting your head the wrong way and hardly moving your tongue. Her teeth knock against yours. When you cringe away at the sensation, she follows you, biting down on your lower lip hard enough to break skin. Hands wrap around your upper arms hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer to her. She licks along the sharp edges of your teeth, presses her tongue against yours. You squirm and whine through it all, only settling when she pulls away, a string of blood-tinged saliva connecting you. 

Satisfaction blooms in Valeria’s chest as she meets your teary eyes. You weeks of planning, the effort spent running, all of it was rendered pointless in a matter of minutes. The regret has your chest tightening, wishing you’d fought harder, bared your teeth. It’s too late, you realize as she heaves you to your feet. There’s no chance at escape with the way the room sways, legs weak beneath you. Valeria anchors you to her side just as you're about to fall, pulling you toward the door. Your mind desperately screams to push her away, but you can’t feel your arms anymore. You stumble and trip over the door frame, only held upright by Valeria’s arm around your waist. 

You can’t help but feel like a prisoner approaching the gallows when you see the idling car. Gravel crunches beneath your feet as she drags you forward, ignoring your attempts to dig your heels in. Each step is one step closer back to Las Almas, back to her mansion, to the gilded cage she’ll lock you in. Fear curdles in your stomach, but there’s nothing you can do with Valeria practically pinning you to her side. She pushes you into the car, quickly sliding in next to you and slamming the door shut. The click of the locks cements your fate. Valeria wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close when you try to shuffle away. She barks out orders to the driver. The car shifts gears, quickly leaving the motel and meeting the open road. Valeria murmurs something about going home as your body loosens, her knuckles brushing over your arm. It’s only a matter of minutes before you’re sprawled across the seat, head resting in her lap. The promise of deep, dreamless sleep is irresistable. 

Valeria idly brushes the hair from your face, humming a quiet tune just loud enough for you to hear. For a while, she watches you fight to stay awake, eyes fluttering shut adorably each time you do. She smiles when you finally slip away, that pinched, fearful expression finally leaving your pretty face. It’s the culmination of weeks of work, countless outbursts, and more than a few deaths. You gave a good chase, she’ll admit, but she won. 

Valeria’s sure once the rohypnol’s effects wane, you’ll be back to your feral self. It won’t be easy to earn your submission, but to her, that’s half the fun. Valeria can already hear the foul threats you’ll grunt out from behind your gag, drool dripping down your chin as you pull against your leash. But that’s trouble for another day, another training session. It’ll take more than one session to fully domesticate you, but Valeria is eager for the work ahead. She’s always enjoyed playing with her food. 

[garfieldblunt]

Modern Jobs I think the VDL Gang would have

Dutch - Drug Lord Prolly - but as a real answer I feel like he would Definitely be the leader of a shitty MEGA church

Hosea - I imagine him either as a therapist or a preschool/elementary teacher - Or even better, Number one Bingo Player in the retirement home

Arthur - Funny enough, I can't see him being more than a ranch hand

John - He's a good ranch owner - He, Arthur, Abi, Jack, n a few others live on a big ranch and live happily ever after

Mary-Beth - She's a librarian, author, and frequent AO3 visitor - can't convince me other wise, She has one of the best fanfictions on WattPad I just know it

Abigail - My heart and soul tells me that Abi would be an illustrator for children's books - or a stay at home mom

Kieran - My little Princess Pupcup is getting his degree in Equine science and becoming a veterinarian for horsies

Micah - Hitman or Dishwasher no in between

Bill - Gas Station clerk - Or I can also imagine him working with Kieran with the horses

Javier - Performer, duh - He does a lot of side gigs and plays at cafes on the reg - I can also imagine him being a Spanish tutor for kids

Susan - Let's be honest, she's the principal of a high school or middle school - any other answer is wrong (/j)

Lenny - He's also a writer, but he's not a fanfiction writer like Mary-Beth - I can also imagine him visiting Mary-Beth's library and reading to the kids on Sundays <3

Sean - Youtuber/ Twitch Streamer - need I say more???

Swanson - AA leader - He's also probably trying to get people to stop joining Dutch's MEGA church

Pearson - He's a chef for the Retirement Home that Hosea is bound to - He also works for the local soup kitchen

Karen - I can see her being a dance performer - not like a stripper, but more like ballet or even musical theater

Charles - State trooper at a National Park - No further questions

Tilly - I just imagine her as such a good lawyer like her husband - She's defiantly someone who can talk her client out of the death penalty if needed

Uncle - His job is to park his ass in a rocking chair and Bother John til the day he dies

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Don't Speak 51

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, 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, Steve Kemp

Note: ya'll rock.

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 

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Amber takes you to a large truck. The man, Curtis, opens the door and she helps you in. It’s an older model with a bench seat. He gets in the other side and slides a key into the ignition. You hug your things tight, staring ahead. Dazed and dull. 

You’re out. You think. This is real, right? 

Amber rubs your shoulder as she keeps her arm around you. Curtis turns on the heat so it blasts on you. You only realise then that your teeth are chattering. 

“Bub, you okay?” Amber asks. You nod and blink at her then the man on her other side. “This is Curtis. He’s a friend.” 

He dips his chin and you look at the dashboard. You can’t speak. Your insides are all shaky. You look over your shoulder at the house. Their house. 

“Go,” Amber says. “Curt, let’s just leave.” 

He shifts and puts his foot on the gas. Amber holds you as he drives. You wiggle your nose and sniffle but the tears don’t come. You’re still afraid. It doesn’t feel over yet. It’s not. 

You look down, your stomach shielded by your clothes, bundled around the tablet and journal. That’s all you have. All you have to prove it was real. If you didn’t take them, you would be sure you didn’t dream it all. 

“There’s the blanket,” Curtis says. 

His voice is grizzly, like a bear. His knuckles are even a little furry. Amber pulls the blanket from between them and throws it over you. 

“I’m just so happy you’re safe. You’re here,” Amber rocks you. “You’re with me. Oh, bubba, I was terrified.” 

You lean into her. Her warmth enshrines you. You turn your face into her shoulder. Just like cinnamon. “Me too,” you whisper. 

You stay like that. When the engine quiets, you feel like you’re still in motion. You don’t move until Amber does. She helps you slide out of the truck but as you land on your feet, you stumble. Your journal slips out and lands open on the cold ground. 

She hops down after you and picks it up. You squeal and grab at it. She can’t read it. It’s yours! She closes it calmly and smiles, holding it out. She tucks it behind your armful. 

“Come on, bub, too cold out here.” 

You let her take you inside. Curtis holds the door again. He’s quiet and patient. He’s scary at first sight but there’s a calmness to him that keeps you from panicking. After the men you’ve dealt with, you should be hiding. 

You set down your things little by little. It’s hard to let go. You leave them on the low bench as Amber and Curtis unlace their boots. You slip off your shoes and look around.

One of your paintings hangs on the wall; a bluebird with a sprig of lily-of-the-valley in its beak. You go close to look at it. You know it’s yours but you find it hard to think that you made that. It looks so cheerful. 

“Pretty,” Curtis comments and you back away from the painting to look at him but your eyes only make it to his chest. 

“She’s talented,” Amber preens, “bubba, let’s get you settled. You want a hot bath?” 

You shake your head. The doctor said no hot baths. You feel sick. Your eyes widen and you scramble in panic. You don’t think as you push between them and race down to the bathroom. You hurl over the sink and whine. 

You hear your sister’s hushed tones followed by her soft footsteps. Her shadow hovers in the door and you crank on the faucet to rinse your mouth. You can barely breath. The acid burns your throat. You can’t tell her the truth. 

“Sorry, I... I’m not feeling well,” you cough and face her. 

“That’s okay. It’s been a hectic day,” she beckons you out. “Well, how about some tea? Ginger, for your stomach.” 

You think that’s okay. It doesn’t have caffeine, you think. You shuffle out after her to the kitchen. Curtis puts the kettle on the stove as you enter. She nods and he nods back. He heads for the door. 

“Call me if you need anything,” he says. 

“Sure, Curt. Thanks again. You don’t know what you’ve done for me.” 

He takes a deep breath, “any time.” 

He leaves and you listen to his steps and the subsequent open and shut of the door. You stare after him. The kettle shakes softly as it heats. You turn back to Amber and you cheek twinges. She’s watching you. 

“He’s your boyfriend.” 

She drops her head and shows her palms, “you got me.” 

“Is he nice?” You ask. 

“So far,” she answers. 

Your chest constricts and you turn your attention to the wall, “mine weren’t.” She lets out a noise, something like a whimper. You shake your head. “No, don’t... feel bad. I don’t want you to.” You push your shoulders up and go to the counter. You lean on it. “You found me and I’m okay now.” 

“Bub, that’s... you’re safe but...” 

“I know. I know. It’s stuck in my head.” You touch your forehead, leaning into your hand. 

She’s silent. You know what she wants to ask but she won’t. Because she loves you. Because she cares. She doesn’t want to hurt you but you hurt her. You heard it in the first note she spoke to you. 

“Let’s have our tea first,” she says as if she can sense your thoughts. 

You nod. 

“Will you get it ready?” You look at the door. “Be right back.” 

“Sure.” 

You go back to the entry way and sift under the clothes. You take your journal. The tablet can wait. You come back as Amber pours the steaming water. She takes a cup and you take the other. You go to the front room and sit on the couch. The mugs clink on the table to steep. 

You clutch the journal in your lap and chew your lip. 

“We don’t have to--” 

“I have to. Or I won’t ever.” You insist. 

“Okay,” she agrees. 

You sit and breathe. It takes a few minutes before your stomach stops churning. You bite down and measure your words. 

“I was with Andy. And he hurt me. So I left. Steve... Dr. Kemp said he could help. I... I thought he would. I thought...” your lip trembles. “I thought I loved him. It’s stupid but I wanted to love him. I wanted someone to love. I wanted him to love me too.” 

Your eye twitches.  

“He didn’t.” 

“Oh, bubba,” she puts her hand on yours. 

“I can’t say... I can’t tell you...” you slip from under her grasp and lift the journal above your lap. You open it. “Will you read?” 

You look at her. She looks scared. 

“You don’t have to but I don’t think I can explain... out loud.” 

“As long as you’re okay with it.” 

“Please,” you beg, “every time I wrote, I wrote to you.” 

You hand her the journal and she takes it with reverence. She pauses and runs her hands over the pages. She puts her head down and her eyes begin to move across the writing. 

Her hand comes up and she covers her mouth. She’s silent and still as she reads. She turns the page and lets out a soft gasp into her palm. It isn’t until she turns the next and wipes her cheeks that you realise she’s crying. 

“Oh, bub...” 

“Just read,” you whisper. 

She continues. Her jaw tenses and her eyes flare as her grief dries up. Her horror turns to anger. She taps her finger at the bottom of the page. 

“What is this?” She flutters the page to the next to check the similarity. 

You know you can’t hide it. Not forever, not today.  

“My cycle. My period,” you explain. “And...” you shudder and your throat locks up. You bring your hands up to your neck and make yourself exhale.  

“It’s not here... or here...” she keeps flipping the pages. “Bub.” 

You feel sick again. You grab the tea and take a gulp. The heat soothes but it cannot heal this wound. 

“Yes.” You sniffle. 

“Yes?” She echoes. “Yes, what?” 

“I have a baby.” 

“What?” She wisps. 

You look down and touch your stomach. “They tested me at the hospital. It’s in there.” 

She slams the book shut and grips it tightly. You’ve never seen her this angry. She stomps around, pacing, then throws the journal and shrieks. 

“They did this too you!?” 

“I let him--” 

“No, no!” She balls her fists. “No, you didn’t ask for it. Don’t you say that. Do you say it!” She snarls and strides around like an animal. “Bub! They—a baby! A--” she stops and sways.  

She closes her eyes and opens her fingers. She flicks her lashes up and looks at you. She walks over to you slowly and sits. She takes your hands into hers. 

“What do you want?” 

“What?” You frown. 

“What do you want to do?” 

You consider her. You left because you didn’t want to burden her. Now you’ve brought home an actual burden. You know what needs to be done. You also know it’s what you want. 

“I don’t want it. It’s not mine. It’s his and I don’t want anything to do with him,” you eke out. 

“Okay, then we will figure it out.” She squeezes your hands. “Together.” 

Your eyes well, “why?” 

“I’m your sister. Why not?” She breathes. “It’s only ever been the two of us. You and me.” 

“I thought... I... they told me you hated me. That I was a burden--” 

“They are bad men. That’s not on you. They took advantage of you and that’s their issue, not yours.” She says. “You got that? None of this is your fault. None of it. Grown men like them know better.” 

You lower your head, “but I... left you.” 

“So? It doesn’t matter. You’ll always have a place with me. Always.” 

You heave into a sob. It’s all coming out now. You can’t hold back. You collapse against her and untangle your hands as you wrap her in a hug. She puts her arms around you and pulls you closer. She leans back with you as your despair pours out in streams. 

“I’m sorry,” you garble, “Amber, I’m so sorry.” 

“Shhh, bubby, shhhh,” she pets your head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.” 

🕊️

You sleep in Amber’s bed. You just want to be close to her and the thought of being alone is scary. She’s warm and safe. 

When the morning comes, you haven’t got much sleep. It’s hard to relax knowing what’s inside of you. The latent but constant nausea also keeps you awake. You make another trip to spew out your guts before Amber wakes. 

You make her tea. The routine is so simple and familiar. You savour each step. You marvel at the walls that once seemed plain and the house that isn’t so small as it is cozy. 

She smiles, her eyes still sleepy, as you give her a cup. You take your own, chamomile, and stand across the counter from her. You watch her and she gives you a grimace. 

“What?” 

“When’s Curtis coming back?” You ask. 

“Oh, bub, don’t worry about him. I don’t want to crowd you--” 

“But he’s your boyfriend. You miss him already, don’t you?” 

She giggles, “you’re teasing me.” 

You nod and laugh too. 

She rolls her eyes, “he’ll be back when he’s back.” 

“He’s sure strong. And tall. And he has nice eyes,” you goad. 

“Quit,” she sticks her tongue out. 

You almost shake with amusement. It feels good not to be so afraid. “I’m glad you had him, Amb. You shouldn’t be alone. Ever.” 

“He... he’s been a help.” she says. “But, bub, there’s some things we can’t do on our own.” 

You deflate. Right. Back to reality. 

“I think we should take your journal to the police. I found that card you had tucked in there for that officer, Jones? Maybe they can help--” 

“What? My journal?” You yipe. “Please, no, they can’t-- no one else can read it.” 

She sets her cup down and her expression sobers, “I know it’s hard and it’s entirely up to you. Always. I’m not telling you what to do, I’m letting you know you have options. But I want you to think about it, okay?” 

Your nose tingles with unspent tears. She leans forward. “Bubba, there were other children there. Are you sure... you were the only woman? What if they find another like you?” 

You flinch and shake your head, “what? No—no. I...” you tried not to think of it before but you’re not stupid. They won’t just give up, even if it’s not you. 

“Look, you don’t have to decide today. There’s a lot more to deal with. For both of us. So let’s just have one day where we don’t think.” 

You stare at her. You want that so badly but you don’t know if you can stop. The worry stirs constantly, simmering and threatening to boil over. Yet for her you can try. 

“Okay,” you agree. “Let’s do that.”