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#the librarian speaks
thelibraryofthacey · 5 months
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Me: Here is my Stars Druid, she's a gay little sailor and she loves the world very much.
My DM: Cool! Here is a mosaic of you and The Moon, who is Your Girlfriend, making The Constellations together.
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IS YOUR BLOG AESTHETIC BASED ON MILI’S
STRING THEOCRACY???
I was looking at your blog and i saw the “Keep your eyes buttered till the end.”
SORRY TO BARGE INTO YOUR INBOX ERM-
Have a GREAT day-
IT IS!!! Mili is my favourite band hands down, and 'To Kill A Living Book' is my favourite album of theirs!
And no, i don't mind you coming into my inbox at all! (it's not like there's many people in here anyways lololol)
You have a great day too!
(Ps, I love your writing!)
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driftbit · 4 months
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my two favorite pieces of hbomberguy's video were these two tests/rules he has for video essays and making media:
"When I think a video is being lazy, I do a little test. I check what sources the video used... and I compare it with the sources you would get if you went to the Wikipedia page for the topic." (Hbomberguy, 55:07)
"I have a little rule for quoting that other creators seem to use as well. If someone saw a clip of your video out of context, would it be possible for them to tell you're quoting someone and where it's from?" (Hbomberguy, 48:18)
These rules I think can be applied to both the act of watching and creating. If you're creating something not intended to be cursory in nature, where are you getting your sources? After that first wikipedia search we all love to do, where do you go from there?
If you're consuming something, and it is intended to be informative in nature, can you go to a random time in it and understand where their sources are coming from?
Sources:
“Plagiarism and You(Tube).” Youtube, uploaded by hbomberguy,2 December 2023, https://youtu.be/yDp3cB5fHXQ?t=3307. Accessed 4 December 2023.
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always-coffee · 1 month
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WV Libraries Are Under Attack: How to Help
News came out yesterday that West Virginia House passed House Bill 4654. This would remove “bona fide schools, public libraries, and museums from the list of exemptions from criminal liability relating to distribution and display to a minor of obscene matter. …”
Potentially criminalizing librarians is bad, and it’s straight out of the fascist playbook. “Opponents of the bill said that while the bill does not ban books, the bill would have unintended consequences for public and school libraries, resulting in increases in challenges to even classic books and attempts to criminally charge librarians over books not pornographic in nature, but books that include descriptions of sex. They also said it could result in improper criminal charges against library staff,” Steven Allen Adams writes.
So, the question is: now what? What do we do? Where do we go from here?
If you live in West Virginia, call you state senate reps. You can find them listed here.
It’s okay to keep your message short:
“Hi, I’m [full name] calling from [ZIP code], and I’m a constituent of [Senator Name]. I am calling to voice my opposition to Bill 4654, because this is a dangerous step toward book banning. It could potentially harm librarians and libraries, which is incredibly wrong. Do not back this dangerous bill.
You can also ask how many people have called to voice their opposition to this bill. This may annoy the person on the phone, but they technically have to answer you. They may be evasive anyway. But you can either give them your contact information and tell them you’d like a call back or you can call back again later and ask for the tally.
The thing is, people rarely call in. A handful of calls is considered a lot, and the best thing you can do right now is make yourself a nuisance. Good trouble, etc.
Only call if you live in West Virginia, because they do not count calls from those outside their constituency. I am obviously not an expert, but if you have additional questions, ask them and I’ll try to help. I learned way more about how politics work during the last presidency than I thought humanly possible.
Additional resources:
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cuubism · 3 months
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bookstore cryptid dream part 11 -- the kidnapping installment
--
“Whatever happened to that poetry book?” Hob asks one day, sitting with Dream in the living room. He’s not sure why it comes to him.
Dream looks up from his book on the history of chocolate, tilting his head in question.
“The cursed one,” Hob elaborates.
“Ah.” Dream closes his book, looking very serious now. “I locked it away, somewhere safe, suitable for books such as that.”
“Didn’t destroy it?”
“Releasing such magic can sometimes have… unintended consequences.” He shakes his head, as if remembering prior such instances. “Best to simply contain it.”
“How many books like that are out there?” Hob asks curiously. Every day, he learns some new thing about the world from Dream. And how dangerous some books can, apparently, be.
“There are a selection. They are rare. For most books, their power lies in the words themselves. No need for occult spells.”
“Huh.” Hob supposes that makes sense. “But you don’t lock those ones away?”
Dream shakes his head. “No. They can be dangerous, though.”
Hob is still wildly curious about these actually magic books. Not that he’d particularly enjoyed getting cursed, but still, he wonders if any such thing will ever cross his path again. He supposes he should hope not.
It is fascinating, though.
--
Dream is missing.
It isn’t like last time, when The Library itself had been gone. That had freaked Hob the fuck out at the time, but now, he knows what it meant — that Dream had felt The Library itself was under threat, and had locked it for safekeeping.
Now, The Library is still there. The door creaks open, unlocked, as Hob pushes on it, letting him into the tiny foyer and first winding halls of stacks. The selection changes periodically — today’s categories include HOPE & ITS DISCONTENTS, “Libraries” (rather meta, Hob thinks), Books of Emptiness (Hob takes one off the shelf out of curiosity and finds it, indeed, empty), and S P E L L S, most of which seem to be dictionaries, actually? Strange. But then, that is The Library.
This is the third day of Hob coming back to The Library in the hopes of finding Dream, and having those hopes dashed. Hope and its discontents, indeed.
Everything is in its place. But Dream is nowhere to be found. He hasn’t been coming home. His books are still on the nightstand, his cardigan forgotten on a chair in the cafe. His study is the same, too, cluttered with notes and journals, abandoned cups of coffee on desks and side tables.
It hurts Hob’s heart to look at, even more than finding The Library gone. The place feels empty without Dream there. As soon as Hob steps in the front door, he can tell Dream hasn’t returned, simply for how grey everything feels.
He hopes nothing’s happened, that Dream was just called away on some urgent errand in the middle of the day, when Hob was busy, and it’s taking him longer than expected to resolve it. Dream is criminally bad at using his phone, to the extent that Hob sometimes isn’t convinced he owns one, and might just have forgotten texting is something he can do. They’ll have to have a talk about that, because he’s giving Hob a heart attack, but still it’s the best case scenario.
But it’s the worst case scenario that’s swirling in Hob’s head.
Dream has disgruntled customers at times. He’d gotten into a fistfight with one, back when they’d first met. What if someone took their ire even further? Hell, what if the owner of that cursed poetry book came back for it?
Hob sighs, slumping into Dream’s desk chair. Even if something terrible has happened, he hasn’t the first clue how to go about finding Dream. He’s kept an eye out, while exploring The Library, for any indication of what could have happened, but to no avail. He’s well and truly starting to panic. The Library has doors everywhere. Dream could be anywhere.
His eyes land on Dream’s journals, still laid open on the desk. Normally Hob doesn’t pry into Dream’s notes. But these are dire circumstances. Hob’s going to lose it if he doesn’t do something.
He picks up the top notebook and reads the entry it’s open to:
— MG thought destroyed ack. lost 1916? JC report OAM magic picked up Sussex summoning what??
Hob groans. “Dream, could your notes be any more fucking unintelligible?” Apparently, his mind works too fast to write in full words, instead of just shorthand.
He flips through a few more pages of notes, skimming them, but not getting much. Then a few pages in, he finds a letter tucked into the journal. In someone else’s handwriting, it reads:
Dream—
You never use your goddamn fucking phone so here’s a note. You know I wouldn’t have to be so obscure if we could just use encrypted texts? Fucking luddite. Anyway. I found the damn thing. R.B. + Co. Pretty sure we’d know if they succeeded in using it so we still have time. I think I have a way in. If I retrieve can you neutralize it? AND FUCKING CALL ME WE’RE SHORT ON TIME!
—JC
In case you forgot how phones work: 020 9281 5555
Well, that’s something. The same JC from the notes? What exactly are the two of them trying to neutralize?
Hob has no idea. But at least he has a clue now.
--
Hob paces back and forth in his living room as he calls the number for “JC”, absolutely no idea who he’s going to get on the other end. But hopefully, they might know what’s happened to Dream.
“Hello?” A gruff woman’s voice answers the line.
“Hi, I’m looking for…” he doesn’t actually know her name. “…J?”
“What?”
“Look, I’m looking for Dream,” Hob says in a rush. Might as well lay it all out. “I’m his boyfriend. He’s been missing for three days.” Maybe “missing” is overstating it. But maybe it’s understating it. “I found your phone number in his notes and wanted to know if you’d seen him.”
“Likely story, pal,” she says with a scoff. “Dream keeps his boyfriend out of all the occult shit. And good thing, too. I wish I could keep myself out of it. What do you really want with him?”
It’s sort of gratifying that other people in Dream’s circle are also protective of his secrets, even if it’s frustrating in the moment. But, ‘keeps him out of the occult shit’? Exactly how much ‘occult shit’ is Dream dealing with on a regular basis?
“Exactly what I said,” Hob says. “He doesn’t usually disappear like this. His notes said you two were looking for something? Something dangerous?” Did Dream go after it? Is that what happened?
“MOTHERFUCKER!” she screams, and Hob pulls the phone from his ear with a wince. “I am going to KILL HIM!”
“Don’t hang up!” Hob yells before she can do just that. “Will you come meet me? I’ll give you my own address, if it helps. You know where The Library is?”
“The Library’s got multiple doors, mate,” she says, sounding marginally calmer now.
Right. Fuck. He gives her the actual street name this time, and she says—
“Be there in a mo’. Your idiot boyfriend’s got himself in a right mess I expect. Because he’s a fucking idiot.”
Just as Hob feared, then. “Tell me about it when you get here,” he says, and then, when she’s hung up, goes to gather Dream’s journals.
--
A smart, tough-looking woman greets him at the door to the cafe, which Hob’s closed for the time being, an hour or so later. “Johanna Constantine,” she says, sticking out a hand, which Hob shakes. “So you really are the boyfriend. Huh. Hob, right?”
“Yeah.” Hob isn’t sure whether to be touched or alarmed that Dream talks about him with his random occult acquaintances.
“He has a photo of you two on his phone,” Johanna explains. “Not that he uses it, the rat bastard. God I’m going to murder him when I find him.”
“Let’s sit down,” Hob suggests. He has coffee ready, more for something to do to still his restless hands while waiting than anything.
“Right,” Johanna says, as she sits down at a table. She gratefully takes the coffee he offers. “So, I’m choosing to trust you. If you fuck me over we will have a serious problem. Okay?”
Hob raises his hands in surrender. “I literally just want to find Dream. I’m worried sick about him.”
Johanna takes a long sip of her coffee. “Right. So. My business is managing occult stuff, yeah? Exorcisms and the like. Stopping it before it hurts anyone. I’ve been trying to track down this particular book. Spell book. Dangerous stuff. What it can do—doesn’t matter. It was thought lost for ages, or destroyed—wouldn’t that have been great. But Dream and I both wanted to get it off the streets, once it popped up again. There’s no good hands for that book to be in.”
“You two friends?” Hob asks.
“Eh,” says Johanna, “sorta. Mostly work friends, I guess. I first got Dream’s help with a spell book a few years back. He’s the best one to go to for that sort of thing, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Yeah,” Hob agrees, mulling over this whole side of Dream’s business he didn’t know about. It makes sense, though. Dream, the expert on all books. Even this book, whatever it is, must ultimately belong to The Library.
“And now he’s gone after this book,” Hob guesses. “By himself.”
“I told him I would retrieve it,” Johanna says, gritting her teeth. “All I wanted was his help locking the thing away after. But no. Had to do it all himself.” She sighs.
“It must have really concerned him,” Hob says.
“It concerned me!” Johanna exclaims. “All the more reason not to go alone! Idiot.” It’s said with fondness, though.
“So, what are we going to do?” Hob asks.
“We?” says Johanna, raising an eyebrow.
“Listen, I don’t care about the book—”
“You should,” Johanna says seriously.
“—Well, I don’t. But I do care about Dream. If he’s in trouble, then I’m not just going to sit here.”
Johanna looks at him appraisingly, then nods, satisfied. “Good,” she says. “I know who has the Grimoire, so I know where he’ll most likely have gone. How good are you with a cricket bat?”
“How about a knife?” Hob says.
She startles. “Christ. Alright, then. I won’t ask, but good.”
“Just tell me where to go, and I’ll be there,” Hob says seriously, and for the first time, she gives him a smile.
“I’ve been hoping for an excuse to give Roderick Burgess a good thrashing. Guy’s a prick. Alright, Dream’s boyfriend—let’s go get the stupid librarian."
--
It’s decided Hob should be the initial decoy because, according to Johanna, “people always think I mean trouble, and you have this sort of wholesome coffee shop owner thing going on. Knife skills aside.”
Hob’s not sure if it’s a compliment or not.
“He’ll definitely think he can scam you,” Johanna adds. That one’s definitely not a compliment.
So Hob goes to an event Roderick Burgess is hosting, showing off all his antiques. He brings with him an old book from The Library, ostensibly to “sell”. Forgive me, Dream, he thinks, as he pulls Magicks of the World off the shelf. Promise I won’t let him keep it.
It’ll get him in, he hopes. It’ll get Roderick Burgess’s attention, at least enough to let Johanna slip past. The book is proper old, nearly falling apart, and while it may not be actually magic, it at least is about magic. He hopes it’s enough.
“Remember,” Johanna says, as they’re stepping up to the door, “just keep his attention. I’ll search the house to see if I can find Dream, or the Grimoire.”
“You really think he’s keeping Dream hostage in this house?” Hob asks incredulously.
Johanna snorts. “If he thinks Dream can help him decode the thing? Yeah, absolutely. I told you. Guy’s a selfish prick.”
That seemed to be putting it lightly.
Hob isn’t sure he’ll be content with being the distraction if he finds out Roderick actually has Dream captive. But he calms himself for the time being.
--
Hob absolutely hates Roderick Burgess the second he lays eyes on him.
He’s managed to corner Burgess in the sitting room of the old manor house. His book in one hand, drink in the other. The man is fucking seedy. Hob could tell immediately, even if Burgess pretended at gentility.
Hob’s already decided that Roderick does have Dream locked in a room somewhere. Call it instinct.
Roderick gives Magicks of the World a look of cool disinterest as Hob hands it to him, but it shifts to grudging surprise. “This is actually old,” he says. “Unlike the fake crap people keep trying to pawn off on me.”
“I was told you had a discerning eye,” Hob says with false admiration. “1612. Genuine article.”
“Hm. This is of some interest,” says Roderick. “Come to my office.”
Hob follows him, hoping Johanna is having some success finding Dream.
Roderick’s office is much neater than Dream’s study. it feels like the affected study of someone trying to come acrossas a studious gentleman. Hob hates it.
And there on the desk is a thick, leather-bound volume that Hob knows instantly is the book Dream and Johanna have been looking for. He isn’t sure exactly how he knows. He isn’t at all magical. But he just knows. He can feel the eerie energy of the thing.
“I’ll give you six hundred pounds for it,” Roderick says, laying Magicks on the desk.
Hob startles. That’s actually a lot of money for a single book. Sorry, Dream, he thinks.
“Where did you get it?” Roderick asks.
“Old bookshop,” Hob says. “Don’t think they knew what they had.”
“They never do,” Roderick muses.
He hands Hob six hundred pounds, cash. Hob takes it, dumbfounded.
“Tell me,” he says, pretending hesitance. “I only know how to tell the age. How to know if it’s genuine. The magic stuff—that’s beyond me. How do you make sense of it?”
“I have my sources,” says Roderick. He seems to delight in being enigmatic. “There are… certain experts. If one knows where to look.”
Certain experts. Hob grits his teeth. “You willing to share a name? I have a few books myself I’d love to get better appraised.”
“I’m keeping that to myself for now. Trade secrets, you know.” He smiles to himself, meanly. “Valuable sources, those, in this business.”
Hob decides two things. One: he can definitely take down an old man. Two: he doesn’t care if he goes to prison.
He picks up a heavy statue from the desk and, before Roderick can react, cracks him across the head with it.
Roderick drops like a stone, and Hob snatches up both Magicks and the Grimoire, and flees.
Shit. That might have been ill-advised. What if Dream isn’t in the house, and Hob just caused permanent brain damage to the one person who might know where he is? Shit.
Nothing for it now. He hurries through the halls, books under his arm. He turns a corner, then another, and where the bloody hell is he? Then—
He nearly runs directly into Johanna and Dream.
Hob thrusts the books at Johanna, and takes Dream in his arms instead, pulling him into a tight hug. Dream hugs him back, pressing his face into Hob’s neck with a soft little sound.
He looks rough. His hair is a disaster—more than usual—and he’s wearing the same clothes Hob vaguely remembers him putting on that morning several days ago, before he disappeared.
“Hey,” Hob whispers, “I was really worried about you.”
“‘m sorry,” Dream murmurs, clutching at him.
“This was extremely fucking stupid, Dream,” Johanna says, in a tone that suggests she’s said so already. There’s worry there too, though.
“Yes, point taken,” Dream says.
“I love you,” Hob murmurs against his cheek, before pulling away to look at him properly.
There’s a bruise on Dream’s cheek that makes Hob very glad he smacked Roderick upside the head with a statue. More than that, he looks a bit… haunted. Hob will have to get more details later. Right now, they need to get out of here.
“Where the fuck is Roderick?” Johanna demands.
“I might have killed him,” Hob says, not feeling very bad about it. “Not totally sure.”
“No loss,” says Johanna, holding the books tightly.
Hob keeps Dream close. Dream is looking at him in wonder. Like Hob is the last possible thing he had expected to see. Freedom itself.
Hob kisses his forehead. And then they get the fuck out of there.
--
“You should really rest, Dream,” Hob says.
Dream is currently doing something to the Grimoire. Binding the pages. He doesn’t seem willing to let it go until he’s made the thing safe.
He sighs. “In a moment.”
“Dream…”
Dream finally puts the book away in a drawer in his desk, kneels before the desk, and draws some complicated symbol on the wood. Perhaps he had done the same with the poetry book, Hob thinks.
Though Hob suspects that the Grimoire is significantly more dangerous.
Finally Dream stands. He seems… a bit listless, now, having finished with the book. Even in the soft lighting of the Library study, the awful bruise on his face is stark, a deep plum mark. He looks at Hob, hands twisting together, expression vulnerable.
Hob’s heart hurts. He hopes he did kill Roderick. But now, he holds out his hands to Dream.
Dream steps over to him, and Hob brings him into an embrace. Holds him tight. Whatever determination had kept Dream going thus far seems to evaporate, then, and he sags against Hob, trembling slightly.
“Let’s go home, yeah?” Hob murmurs against his hair.
“Yes,” Dream sighs.
He locks up the study, which Hob has never seen him do before, and then, once they’re downstairs, locks The Library’s front door as well. He leaves a sign that says, “Closed for the time being.”
Hob leads him across the street, back upstairs to his flat above the cafe, and steers him to the bathroom. He perches him on the edge of the tub as he turns on the tap and lets the hot water fill up.
Dream is still shivering a little. The poor thing is probably desperate for a bath, not to mention food, Christ.
“What did he want with you?” Hob asks, helping Dream out of his jumper. Dream winces as he pulls it off over his head, and Hob grits his teeth. “Did he hurt you?”
“He had been trying to use the Grimoire,” Dream says, as Hob kneels to help him with his slacks. “But there was a symbol he could not decode. My… approach… to try to take the book back was… not as clever as I had hoped, and I was intercepted. He demanded I translate it. When I refused…” he trails off. He’s naked now, and Hob can see a dark bruise stretching up his thigh, another working its way up his back and over his shoulder. “Well, he did not take well to being told ‘no.’”
“Bastard,” Hob swears, and Dream’s lips quirk up.
“Quite.”
Hob kisses the bruise on Dream’s thigh—if only that would do more to actually heal it—and Dream smiles faintly.
“What’s that book do anyway?” Hob asks.
“It’s meant to summon Death,” says Dream, and Hob feels a chill, like the universe itself is protesting that possibility. “I do not think it has ever been successfully used. But the magic is certainly potent enough.”
“Good thing you got it back, then,” says Hob. He helps Dream up, then supports him as he steps into the tub, sinking down into the warm water with a sigh.
Hob strips off his own clothes and follows him, slipping behind Dream and pulling him back to his chest. Dream leans his head against Hob’s shoulder.
“That was all very silly, you know,” Hob says against his cheek, arms wrapped around Dream’s middle. “I was very worried about you.”
“I am sorry,” murmurs Dream. “It was… poorly thought out.”
“Just a bit.”
“But,” says Dream, a hint of wonder in his voice, “you came to rescue me.”
Hob kisses his cheek. “Of course.”
“Hob…” starts Dream. “How may I say this… you are not exactly a rough type I would expect to be performing heists.”
“Hey, you don’t know everything about me,” Hob says indignantly. “Second, you’re a librarian, and you tried to break into the man’s damn house first. Thirdly—”
“And yet,” Dream interrupts, “you still came to help me. Roderick Burgess is a dangerous man. That was ill-advised.”
“Didn’t seem very dangerous when I smacked him in the head.”
“I am saying I appreciate it,” says Dream, with a little chuckle. “All the more so for the danger you put yourself in.”
“You’re my boyfriend,” Hob says. “I love you. Of course I came after you. Don’t be silly.”
He wishes he had gotten there sooner. He chokes up, thinking of Dream stuck in some room, uncertain of any rescue. He tucks his face into Dream’s shoulder, tears beading along his lashes. “Poor darling.”
Dream reaches up and strokes his hair. “I’d be curious to hear about your criminal past sometime,” he murmurs, which has Hob chuckling. “Did you really kill Roderick Burgess?”
“Dunno,” says Hob. “Hope so.”
“My boyfriend is more dangerous than I thought,” Dream observes, lips tugging up. He sounds quite satisfied about it, and Hob kisses the corner of his lips.
“If he comes back I’ll kill him again,” he says.
Dream shivers, leaning more heavily against him. “You’ve unlocked the two keys to my heart,” he whispers, and it’s only partly joking.
“Oh yeah?” Hob says, lips still brushing his cheek. “Violence committed on your behalf is one?”
Dream nods.
“What’s the other, then?”
Dream’s lips twitch. “Scones.”
“I’ll have to fulfill that one in a few minutes then, too,” Hob says, grinning.
“So you shall.”
“Would it make you doubly horny if I killed somebody with a scone?” Hob asks. “Or—?”
Dream turns around in his lap to kiss him, wrapping his hands around the back of Hob’s neck. Hob rocks back with the force of the kiss, leaning back against the tub. “Yes,” Dream declares, and gives Hob another peck on the lips.
“I’ll find someone to kill,” Hob promises. “You have anyone in mind?”
Dream giggles. Joy looks good on him, after everything. He tucks his nose in against Hob’s shoulder again, and Hob holds him close, runs a hand up and down over his back, careful of the bruises.
“I will think of something,” Dream promises.
Hob kisses his temple, and resolves to keep a closer eye on his boyfriend’s supernatural activities in the future.
And to buy Johanna Constantine a drink some time, too.
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Don't Speak 32
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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: 👀
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. 💖
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You turn off the heater as you look one last time over the space. Everything's set away neatly as the falcon sits on oak leaves, its feathers carefully forged from the streaks of your brush. You're proud, you're so close to done and you've always struggled with following through. You'll be sure to tell Steve, you mean, Dr. Kemp at your next session.
Or tomorrow.
You catch yourself smiling at that thought. No, you shouldn't be so happy. He's your therapist. He's helping you. It's his job. But he said he's your friend, didn't he?
You close the garage door behind you and lock it. The TV blasts loudly from the front room and your mood quickly grays. You leave your slip-ons by the door and tiptoe towards the den. 
It's empty. Sports commentators sit around a desk talking about stats and numbers you don't understand. Andy isn't there. Only the empty beer bottles across the coffee table.
You go into the kitchen but don't find him there either. Is he upset? Maybe he went to bed.
You turn off the television and shut off the lights before you head upstairs. You pad up slowly, dragging your hand on the railing as you yawn. You'll make it up by cooking breakfast. For now, you just want to sleep. You hope some cuddling can placate him.
As you turn down the hall, you notice his room is open and the lights are off. Yet the door closer to you, the guest room where you used to sleep, is lit up. You near, your chest dropping as you hear the flutter of pages. 
You peek around the door frame and your lip trembles. He's not supposed to do that! Dr. Kemp said he can't do that.
You watch Andy as he holds your journal, scowling as he sits on the side of the bed. His shoulders slump unevenly as he curls his lips at the pages. He shakes his head and grumbles as he reads.
"Andy," you step into the doorway, "hey, that's mine."
You stomp towards him, your anger overriding any fear. You grab for the journal as he looks up at you, blue eyes cloudy and brow furrowed. He holds the book out of reach as he stands. You back-up as he towers over you.
"Is this yours too?" He shows the vibrator in his other hand, "hmmm," he slurs slightly as he looks down at the pages again, "'Dr. Kemp gave me a gift. I don't know if I should open it though. I don't know what to do with it…'" he curls a finger around the slender bullet toy and flips through the pages, reading more, "'Today Dr. Kemp taught me how to use the toy and relax. It felt good but it's hard to focus.'" He stops and swallows, "I tried but I couldn't think of Andy. It felt wrong."
He snaps shut your journal and flings it just past you, the force gusting against your side as you flinch. You whimper and back away. He was never meant to see that. Those are your personal thoughts. 
"Andy, that's my journal–"
"What? You still don't love me?" He lumbers forward, slightly off kilter, "you'd rather–" he shows the toy and clicks the button, "a piece of plastic!?"
"No, no, it wasn't… it's to help me so… so I know what to do. Dr. Kemp–"
"He gave you this. He gave you this and you didn't tell me," his voice grows louder and louder as you shrink smaller and smaller, "you won't even let me try to make you feel good."
He shakes his head, as if trying to escape some unseen veil. He whips the toy away from him, leaving a dent on the wall as the buzz stops and it bounces onto the floor. You fold your hands against your chest and retreat step by step.
"I'm scared, Andy," you sniffle. 
"And I'm hurt," he snarls and lunges for you.
You yipe and beat against his chest as he clutches your arms. He squeezes so tight you cry out. He's so strong you can't resist him. You push on his stomach, trying to wriggle free as he teeters around with you trapped.
"Andy, please, please, I never--I didn't mean anything. I was only… I was trying to be better. Like you want me to. Please, please," you put your hands on his thick arms, the strength cording in his biceps, "don't hurt me. Please. Please, I'll be better, I'll be better."
He stills, keeping his grip above your elbows. His long lashes flick and he scowls down at you, "you think I would hurt you. After everything I've done. You think I would…" his eyes glisten and he turns to grit his jaw at the wall. "You don't love me."
"No, Andy, I love you, I do," you babble. Just say what he wants. That's all you can do, "I do, please…"
"Then why are you so fucking scared?" He turns to you and grabs your chin, bending to look you in the eye. You squirm and grasp his wrist, on your toes as he nearly chokes you. "I've waited… I've been nice…" 
He turns with you almost dangling from his hold. Your feet drag on the floor as you stumble. You whine as he walks you back. You're dizzy with his force and the way he moves you so easily.
"Please," you croak.
"You wanna see what a real man is like," he shoves you so you hit the foot of the bed and land on your back, "not some stupid fucking toy."
He puts his hand to the front of his jeans and you gulp. Your heart pounds like thunder, vision flashing like lightning as the storm of horror consumes you. You push yourself up as he fumbles with his zipper.
"Andy, let's go to bed–"
"Shut up," he barks and pushes you back down.
You bite your tongue as you fall heavy again. You push yourself up onto the mattress, dragging yourself backwards away from him. He leaves his jeans open as he advances on you, staggering as he jostles the bed, climbing up on his knees.
He reaches for you and you turn, crawling away frantically, desperate to get to the edge. He grabs your waist and hauls you back, collapsing his weight on you. You writhe, clawing at the covers as they slip down from the bed.
You're stuck pinned beneath him as he breathes into your scalp. He smells like beer and spit. He suffocates you to a panic, the walls closing in and a fiery heat scalding across your flesh.
"And-dy," you whimper as he hooks his arm around your neck, forcing your head up as your arms flail across the bed, "Andy….please…"
"Shhh, baby, it's okay," he nuzzles your crown, "you wanna feel good. I'm gonna make you feel good. Huh?" He tightens his arm so his bicep presses against your throat, "or did you lie about that too?"
"N-no, please, it hurts," you sob.
"It won't hurt if you stop," he bends his arm until you can't breathe, jutting his chin against your skull, "stop fucking moving."
You freeze. His timbre alone is a threat. He puffs, the alcoholic taint curdling in your nose as he brings his other arm between you.
As he keeps his arm under your neck, he forces you to arch your spine, his nails scratching your lower back as he grips the back of your pants. You close your eyes as you quiver. You feel your chest tearing apart, your nerves pinging wildly, your entire being falling to pieces.
Love, love, they all say love before they hurt you.
He rips down the back of your jeans and growls. The force of it jerks your limp body. You try not to think as his hot breath slips down the side of your face.
He rolls the denim down, quickly tugging down your panties and baring your ass. You squeak as your naked flesh rubs against the vee of his open zipper. He pulls his hand away, leaning on one knee as he lifts his pelvis, feeling between your bodies.
He grunts and shifts, further bouncing the bed under you. He plants both knees and snakes his arm beneath you, keeping his other at your throat. He wiggles as he feels along your pelvis, nudging your legs as far apart as they can go against the denim.
He dips his hips down as you feel his tip along the curve of your ass. Your heart drums behind your ears, drowning out his raspy groans as his fingers frame your cunt and part your lips. You clench, bracing the bed as salty tears slip free and stain the blanket beneath. 
He catches his tip between his knuckles and jerks. He slides to your entrance and prods, tilting awkwardly until he can line up. He pushes, straining you dryly. He bucks, trying to force his way in and you shriek.
He grunts and tries again, the chafe sparking a fire inside of you. You reach back, grasping the slack fabric of his jeans as you keep your other hand fisted around the blanket. He thrusts again, grinding in another inch as you exclaim.
You babble and bawl as he rocks. You feel his frustration at the resistance of your body. You try to let him in, try not to feel and just let it happen. 
As he splits you, burying himself deep, you let out a horrid cry. Your head dangles over his forearm as you sob against the bedding and he puffs into the crook of your neck. He eases back slowly before sinking in again. Your squirming does little to deter him.
His nose tickles your temple and he bows down to kiss your cheek as he begins a tempo. Long, slow, and torturous. Each dip inside is worse than the last. 
"Baby, doesn't that feel good? Don't I feel good? Hmm, better than the toy?" He kisses your cheek again, "you feel good on me."
You gulp and choke on the eruption of tears. His groans and growls seep into you, his body rumbling with the delight he takes in your destruction. Your terror fades to disbelief and the well dries up, leaving you silent and staring.
"Tell me, honey, tell me I feel good. Tell me it's better." His hand creeps up to grope your chest as he pumps into you.
You shudder and turn your face down. You hide in the darkness of your eyelids. Your body is racked in agony and repulsion.
"Yes…" you utter as his arm loosens around your neck, "yes, it's…" you squeal as he ruts too hard, "good!"
"Mmmm, yeah, baby, this is what you want. You're just too afraid… this is what we need. Both of us…" he sighs as he fucks you into the bed.
He flattens you against the mattress as his pelvis claps against you. He keeps you arched awkwardly as he rams into you over and over. The tension tautens his muscles and he drops his head down to nibble at your ear.
This isn't happening. It isn't happening. It can't be. It can't. 
You repeat your denial over and over. Trying to convince yourself that this isn't real. That you can't feel a thing. 
You're not in your body. You're somewhere else. You're not there. Even if you are, it won't last forever. It will end and you'll be left to wallow.
Alone. Amber isn't coming to comfort you now.
🕊️
The world is foggy. You stare into nothing, your surroundings nothing more than shadows. You're in a void. You never want to think or feel again.
You won't cry. Not anymore. You have nothing left.
A footstep makes you wince. You can hear… him. You roll onto your side and whimper. You hurt everywhere.
You smell him on the pillow and the blankets. You reek of him. You realise then you're not in the same bed, you're in his.
His voice drones indiscernible outside the room as you hide beneath the duvet. His tone brings you back, him cooing as he carries you down the hall, laying you down, undressing you, touching you all over. Doing that again.
You suck in your lower lip and fight the tide rolling under the surface. He gets closer, you can hear him more clearly even if you try not to. The door opens and his shadow looms against the wall. 
"Thanks for checking in. No, she's okay. We went out for breakfast," he explains as you feel his gaze through the layers between you, "something upset her stomach, she's laying down." A pause, the garbled response from the phone speaker, "I'll tell her you say hi. She should be fine in no time. Yep, okay, doc, thanks again."
He sighs as he hangs up. He puts the phone down heavily and nears the bed. You feel it dip by your feet as he climbs up, crawling up your body as he tugs at your only shield. He peels away the duvet, slipping beneath it as he once more smothers you beneath him. 
"Mmm, honey," he holds himself over you as he urges you flat on your back, "you're delicious…" he kisses along your shoulders and across your chest, "beautiful, you know that?" He purrs, the tip of his nose sending chills through you, "you're a bad girl, keeping all this from me…" he pinch your nipple with his teeth and you squeak, "will you be a good girl for me, dove?"
You nod frantically. Whatever it takes to make him stop touching you. You'll do whatever he wants if it means he'll leave you alone. Maybe not forever, but eventually.
"Good," he kisses along your stomach, "that's all I ever wanted… to be good to you. To be good for you."
Your muscles tie and you lock your hands in fists. He descends your body inch by inch. You roll your eyes back, drifting into oblivion.
It's not forever. Nothing is.
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gaygentdanvrs · 1 year
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someone really wants him to be flemish (plot twist, it’s me in that writers room)
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gender-trash · 2 months
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there's a really surprising number of people on this website who content tag for swearing, a fact i have only learned because my viral bookbinding post has reached a solid handful of these people. completely foreign behavior to me (a person who tends to use "fuck" as punctuation), but also confusing because i could have sworn that i hadn't said fuck hardly at ALL in that one?
...yeah, no. first time i saw a "sorry about the language" tag crop up in my notes i went and checked and i don't think a single paragraph of that post escaped me cussin' somewhere in it
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brittlebutch · 10 months
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honestly Adaine is so good at clarifying/directing Ayda socially that it begins to circle back to a dynamic of like, Ayda saying "i don't know or understand these rules" and Adaine responding "have no fear, I've been carefully studying and manually interfacing with these for years, I will explain:" in a way that to me is so autism4autism
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jinxedbooks · 1 day
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Hey, I found some of the puzzle pieces you were searching for, would you like me to bring them to you¿?
You did!? Amazing, yes, please do
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thelibraryofthacey · 26 days
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On Knowledge Checks
In my experience as a player and a GM, I find that in the vast majority of cases, rolling a knowledge skill to know something is not particularly engaging gameplay.
While the knowledge skills reflect what you know, checks using those skills should be less about whether or not a hero knows something and more about applying that knowledge. A check should involve action, having an effect on the world or the characters in it. An Arcana check might be used to reactivate a damaged automaton, or a History check might be used to impress the Duke by citing his brother’s valorous deeds in a recent skirmish - regardless of whether either the brother or the battle existed before the player made the check!
If the narrative requires that the heroes know something, then the heroes should simply know it, or the PC it makes the most sense to know such a thing knows it. If they don’t need to know it, but it would add color to the world or help to characterize an NPC, then they should know it. If they specifically ask a question they would reasonably know the answer to, but it’s not important or interesting, you can make up an answer or simply tell them “you know the answer to that question.” The latter signals to the players that the information they seek is not important, allowing them to spend your collective time on more interesting things.
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I saw your pfp and freaked out. Are you a Mili or Library of Ruina fan?
Sorry if anyone has asked you this before.
I am, actually! Mili altered my brain chemistry on a level that I cannot explain, and now I have made a whole blog themed after them lololol. I actually found out about them through a twst animatic with vil in it...
I know absolutely nothing about Library of Ruina, but I've been meaning to get into it eventually!
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Interrupting the usual tournament posting to say that I finally started to consume the first of all of the media I wanted to consume as a result of seeing cool swords in media from last time, in that I started Dark Souls 3 this month
Despite the fact that I usually hate slow games and also quit very easily when a game gets too hard I'm enjoying this one a lot. Mechanically and format-wise it's very similar to Tunic (great indie game you should play it) so I kinda figured I'd like it, and yeah. It's like tunic just you gotta be slightly more patient. And it's less colorful. and there's a million stats and items and stuff lol
I'm currently trying to grind out mr pontiff sulyvahn who is actually the first boss who's taken me more than 5 tries to beat if you can believe that. But I've still spent more time grinding out tunic bosses so I'm not that worried
Sulyvahn's swords are very baller and I wish I could submit them to my own tournament :( I haven't gotten to use any cool swords myself though. At my brother's recommendation I've been using a dex build and fortunately or unfortunately for me I got the 2% lothric knight sword drop first try, and with a sharp gem that's an A grade dex scaling so this is kind of my best weapon for the whole game I guess? Which is cool but also kind of sad because it's about as basic as swords come
But hey seeing bosses use cool swords is good enough for me
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door · 6 months
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due to alamo scheduling and not realizing these two showings were on the same day until after tickets for both had been bought, i attended a double feature of mad max fury road (specifically the black and chrome edition) and the mummy today. spent a solid 5.5 hours in the cinema. best movies ever made
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samsspambox · 16 days
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update: i'm not dead
hello hello! idk if yall still remember this humble blog but tis I! the one and only sam in a spam can, samsspambox!
i realize i may have neglected this blog but i have come back from the trenches (going back to them tho) and have been quiet and i'm sorry but i'll probably be shifting back to posting again?? idk depends on how everything goes
tl;dr: i got hit by the ao3 author curse and had to take a step back
if you want the full woes keep reading, but otherwise,,, hello again! jkbzskjbzc
so much started going on around september 2023 and just now they started to calm down (or, i started to learn how to deal with it i guess)
here's a whole comprehensive list:
Sep 2023 - Complex where I lived for 16+ years got sold, had to start house hunting
Oct 2023 - idk if yall remember but i ended up dating that one guy i talked abt here (this came with consequences)
Nov 2023 - Family death, Mom got Sick
Dec 2023 - Mom had surgery, Another Family Death
Jan 2024 - internationally traveled to place where my parents are from (alone) to go to the funeral and pay respects to prior death, broke up with that one guy (which is a whole ordeal)
Feb 2024 - Moved out of childhood home
Mar 2024 - Interviews for jobs
It was just one thing after another after another and, well, i don't think that was an environment conducive to writing, even if i came up with cool concepts or rambles or stuff like that. i had no energy. and ik i had so many plans but life really said 'no, you stop right there' and essentially paused my fic writings which sucks but oh well. now ive got some stuff figured out and an extra day off so i might be able to pick up where i left off.
and ngl i miss all the tumblr homies *cries*
but yeah. slowly but steadily ill try to post again but no promises!
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Don’t Speak 5
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, 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: Sometimes the darkest times have their bright spots. Thanks yall for all your patience.
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. 💖
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You sit against your bedroom door. Arms on your knees as you lean your head back against the wood. You hear Amber’s voice carrying from down the hall despite how she tries to keep her words muffled. It’s not the first phone call like this you’ve overheard but you wish it would be the last.
“Promise, Tay, I’ll pay you back next week. I just can’t miss the first. Friggin’ landlord is breathing down my neck…” 
Amber’s gentle tone drifts down and encases you like a storm. Your neck is on fire, your cheeks tingle, your eyes glisten and gloss. You drop your head forward and hold it as you fight back the tears. It’s your fault. You’re the reason she has to borrow money and she’s too nice to say it. Not to you anyway.
“Yeah, it’s just been a tough month...”
You sniff and push yourself away from the door. You don’t want to hear anymore. There’s never a second you aren’t painfully aware of how pathetic you are. You crawl across the room and into your bed. 
You cocoon yourself in your bedding and sigh. You could at least wash your sheet, you think as you smell your own sweat on the cotton, get off your lazy ass and help. You tuck your head under the blankets and stay like that until it grows humid and uncomfortable. 
When you come up for air, you fall flat on your back and groan. You can’t just feel sorry for yourself and wish the consequences would go away. You have to do something. You have to at least try to contribute the bare minimum.
Your mother was right about you. Amber should’ve listened to her.
You shake your head as you bid the thought away. Don’t think of her. That’s then, this is now, and there will be a tomorrow. So you can try to make that different.
You sit up and shove away the blankets. You turn your legs over the edge of the bed and curl your hands around the edge. You look around your room, littered with dirty clothes and the remnants of your manic searching for that one book you’re sure you threw out in the end. You can’t live like this, and you can’t make Amber live like this either.
You get up and gather the jeans, the tee shirts, the wrinkle jogging pants. You pile it all up in the basket nestled in the corner. You sit on the floor and gather up the dried up old pens, a scattered deck of cards, coloured pencils you never took out of the tin, a notebook with your ideas, and a medley of random keepsakes. You pack it away in drawers and onto shelves and steady yourself.
You don’t want to be the same as you always were but Amber can’t be responsible for that too. She already does everything.
You take the basket of clothes and go to the door. You stare at it as you hear the dull chatter of the television on the other side. The world buzzes to a ringing whistle in your ears as you stand paralysed. You hate this feeling. The invisible latch that keeps the door locked in your mind.
You move the basket to rest against your hip and cling to it with one arm. You shakily reach for the doorknob and turn it. You shift it open slowly. You keep from grinding the hinges and shuffle out to the hall. You peer down towards the living room, the flicker of the television tinging the doorway just slightly.
You quickly spin away and tiptoe in the opposite direction. You enter the laundry room and place the basket on the dryer. You shake out each piece of clothing as you load the washer and measure the soap precisely. You close the lid and set the cycle. It’s not that difficult to function, you remand yourself, so stop being a slug.
“Hey, doing some laundry?” Amber’s voice startles you.
You face her and fold your arms across your front, “uh, yeah.”
“Dinner’s in the stove if you want any,” she offers, “figured you were sleeping when you didn’t open the door.”
“Um…” you utter, trying not to think of how you just ignored her and sank deeper into the mattress, “sorry, yeah, I had a headache.”
“You gotta eat,” she says, “you know?”
“I… had some cereal this morning.”
She clicks her tongue and nods. You see the twitch in her cheek. She exhales again, this time deeper.
“Please don’t lie to me. We ran out of cereal yesterday. Remember?”
You blink and dip your chin down in shame. “I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll eat now.”
“It’s your favourite. Cabbage rolls.” She says, “really stinky ones.”
You flick your eyes up and she sticks out her tongue playfully. You try to smile but just clamp your lips tighter. You shrug and near her as she lingers in the doorway, “thanks.”
“I didn’t make em,” she scoffs, “you know I’m not some chef. There’s a little Polish place next to work. They bring in leftovers but today they didn’t have any pierogies.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” you follow her into the hall as she turns away. “Sounds yummy.”
“Eh, depends. Call me picky or uncultured, but I let Maria take the soup they left… it didn’t look appetizing.”
You’re quiet as you come into the kitchen. Amber opens the stove and takes out the pan with the oven mitts. She places it on the counter and pulls out a plate. She taps the side of the pan hesitantly.
“Hm, they’re a bit cold now. You can nuke a few if you want,” she says.
“Alright,” you near and take out a spatula as she watches you.
You try not to pay heed to her observation as you scoop out three rolls onto the plate. You rinse the spatula and pop the dish into the microwave. You close it and hit start.
“Eat it out here,” she says, “you can always come sit with me in the living room. Catch up on the drama.”
You look her in the face. She smiles. A warm, comforting smile. You can’t find an ounce of resent or frustration. She’s so good at hiding it.
“Alright,” you croak, “I’ll clean up my plate after too.”
She watches you. A small crack in her facade but nothing like what you expect. The ripple above her brow and the slant in her mouth is nothing less than concern. She shouldn’t feel bad for you, she should hate you.
“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t mind the company,” she puts out breezily.
You nod and look at the microwave. You don’t want to let her down. You don’t want it to be like this. All you want is to one day do as much for her as she’s done for you.
🎨
The smell of clean laundry fills your room. It’s comforting and cozy. You feel the heat radiating off of the basket as you sit next to it. You don’t fold it right away as you bask in the scent. 
Instead you take your tablet from your nightstand and slide back the cover. The cord keeps you at an awkward angle as you shift around on the corner of the bed. You hit the power button and wait for it to boot up. Your insides flip as you watch the colourful icon pop up.
You wait for the update to download, further addled by the drawn out process. You’ve left this too long. You hope it’s not too late. 
Finally, you get signed into Etsy and see the notification dot. Ugh, no…
Your anxiety spikes and you place the tablet face down on your night stand. One thing at a time. You focus on the basket and pull out a shirt, folding it tediously, delaying the inevitable. Little by little, you work through the laundry.
In another act of avoidance, you even put it away. You tuck the tees and jeans in your dresser and hang the large items in the closet. You sit back down and cross your legs. Just do it. Odds are, it’s just messages from Etsy promoting some new feature.
You unlock the tablet and hit the messages icon. Nope. No. Exactly what you expect and why wouldn’t it? He said he sent a request. Maybe you just didn’t want to believe him.
You peek at the door. You feel guilty just looking at it. Amber warned you. You’re not too sure if she’s right and you wouldn’t know how to make the judgment yourself. Andy is only ever nice to you. Helpful. Like you told her, he’s doing his job. Nothing else.
You really don’t get why Amber’s so worried. Andy is a lot older. You think... and you are you. You are completely unremarkable. Maybe you’re overthinking what she said. I mean, you know what a mirror looks like.
All that doesn’t matter. This isn’t about whatever she’s afraid of. She just worries too much about you and that’s exactly what you’re trying to assuage. To show her that you can do something yourself.
Money is money. And this is your job. You can’t keep lying about having projects in progress and making false promises for tomorrow. You have to follow through, for once.
You open the request. It’s friendly enough, the specifications are bigger than any project you’ve done before. The elements won’t be difficult. A falcon in a golden laurel. What does surprise you is the added comment.
‘Would it be possible to have this done non-digital?’
You can do physical pieces but you stick to digital prints. You can’t afford the materials even with the promise of reimbursement. You can say no. You’re the creator, right? It says on the page, digital only…
You’ve never been good at drawing lines, for yourself or others.
You open up the chat and begin typing. You backspace several times before you’re content with the message.
‘Hello Andy. Thank you for your order. I could do this piece for you digitally as noted on my page. Do you have a timeline for when you would like this completed?’
You hit send and your eyes flick up to the time in the corner. Shit. It’s late. You probably won’t get a response until the morning and that means you’ll be awake until then. You can’t lose this sale. It would be the most you ever brought in. You could actually help with rent.
Your tablet bings and you flinch. You focus your vision and read the message carefully.
‘Good to hear from you. I was getting concerned. Everything okay?’
You don’t expect that. This is business.
‘Everything is fine. Just have a lot to do. As I said, I only do digital.’
‘That’s too bad. I was hoping to have something hand-painted as I prefer the effect. If you’re open to it, maybe we can discuss further in-person and come to an arrangement?’
You squint. You don’t understand. You said no. You can’t do that. It has to be digital. You’re defeated. Just as weak as ever.
‘If you don’t want a digital print, I can refund your purchase and direct you to a seller that does physical work. Sorry.’
Three dots come up almost right away. You stare at them in anticipation. So much for that. Again, your hopes are crushed. Nothing ever turns out.
‘Like I said, I’d be happy to meet in person to come to a compromise. Unfortunately, I don’t do too well via text. Looking forward to having this piece done by such a talented artist.’
You huff and let the tablet rest against your lap. You grip your head. You’re frustrated. Why won’t he listen?
Maybe you just need to say this to his face. Well, that’s always harder. To say no right aloud. But maybe, just maybe, you can convince him to do a digital print. You won’t just give up.
‘Alright. I can go to the library tomorrow? Thanks again for ordering.’
His response is almost instantaneous.
‘Unfortunately, I am not working tomorrow. However, I would be happy to meet you at the library to discuss. Noon?’
You hesitate. Your chest tightens and your ears burn. This feels wrong. It feels like you’re doing something bad. If Amber knew… well, you’re an adult and this is what adults do. They make their own money.
‘Okay. Noon. Tomorrow. Good night.’
You hit send and watch the little dot that shows read. Another message bubble appears with the three dots. You wait and wait. The bubble goes away. You blew it. You know it. Then it comes back up and a new message bings.
‘Good night. See ya tomorrow.’
Hmm. All that typing for that? Maybe he’s a slow typer. You don’t know. Whatever. You’re not getting out of this. 
You’re going to get this sale, you’re going to make Amber proud, and better, you’ll show her that her suspicion was all just make belief. Andy is just a librarian and you’re just a sad, desperate person.
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