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deckyshep · 4 years ago

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Unholiest - Chapter One

Original story by R.D. Shepard. Genre(s): Historical Fiction, Supernatural, Romance Content Warnings: HIV/AIDS diagnosis, homophobia, homophobic/transphobic slur usage, missing person Author’s Notes: Thanks for reading! This is chapter one of the Unholiest novel I’ve been working on for about a year now. It’s still in progress, but I’m excited to be able to share this first chapter with y’all. This novel was heavily inspired by a TTRPG series that I’ve been a huge fan of for a long time; with the uploading of each chapter, it’ll likely become apparent which TTRPG series it is, haha. Enjoy! Summary: Mac Whelan and Drew Kelly are a young, openly gay couple in the early 1980s, living in NYC and struggling to make ends meet. It’s hard enough being out of the closet in the midst of the AIDS crisis—but when Mac suddenly goes missing, Drew struggles with the grief of losing the first man he ever loved while also dealing with the existential dread of his own mortality. When he discovers what happened to his fiancé, though... heads will roll.

It had been almost an hour, and the doctor hadn’t even walked in yet. Mac Whelan and his fiancé, Drew Kelly, sat impatiently in the office. Drew’s hand was holding Mac’s leg down, as he had a tendency to bounce his leg when he was nervous. They’d ran out of conversation to distract each other with, so they simply leaned against one another, keeping their eyes on the door.

“You know it’ll be fine, right?” Mac whispered, turning his head to kiss just below Drew’s ear, and Drew sighed.

“Please don’t make me have this conversation again.” Drew rubbed Mac’s knee gently. “We don’t know that, and you’re not making me feel better by heightening my expectations.”

Mac grinned a little. “No, I know. I just wanna rub it in your face when the tests come back negative and it turns out I was just dehydrated.” Drew scoffed, rolling his eyes with a smile. “You know I’m gonna be right. I drank so many Sex on the Beaches that night, and exactly one bottle of water. I’ll admit, that was my fault, but that’s all that—”

They both sat upright when there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Drew quickly said, and the doctor walked in. He was a bald-headed man with thick-rimmed glasses and a long white doctor’s coat that covered a crisp, plaid button-down.

“Mr. Whelan,” the doctor greeted Mac, shaking his hand before sitting down at the desk. “And… Drew, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Drew answered a little too quickly. “Dr. Stannard, did you… get anything back?”

Dr. Stannard nodded. “If you remember correctly, Mac, we tested you for HIV.”

Drew’s hand was tightly held in his fiancé’s as Mac’s leg bounced nervously in his seat. “Right.”

“Which stands for Human Immunodeficiency Virus.” The doctor set down a clipboard, removing a couple of papers from the board and looking them over. “It’s a virus that, depending on the patient, can remain dormant for many years, or start attacking the immune system right away. You were at risk due to your relationship with another man, and after your last spill, we’re all very glad you came in to get tested—”

“Can you just cut to the chase?” Drew interrupted.

Mac squeezed his hand, chastising him with a look. “Baby, he’s trying to make sure we know the facts. Even though I don’t have HIV, it’s important that we stay safe. Right, Stannard?” The doctor opened his mouth to speak, then closed it with a soft sigh. Mac felt his mouth go dry. “Doc?”

“Mr. Whelan, I’m sorry. Your tests came back positive.”

Drew’s grip on his hand grew painfully tight, and Mac blinked. “Excuse me?”

The doctor furrowed his brow, obviously never enjoying this part of the job. “You tested positive for HIV, Mac. Moreso, we’re afraid the virus is working faster than we’d expected. Mr. Kelly, if you have been his only sexual partner, you’re going to need to get tested as well so we can make a care plan for both of you.”

Mac heard Drew start to cry, but he couldn’t really feel anything. Not the pain from Drew squeezing his hand, not the tears soaking into his shirt sleeve, not the coldness of the room. “I… No, there’s gotta be a mistake.”

“These tests are ninety-nine percent accurate, Mr. Whelan.” The doctor sighed, setting his hands flat against the desk. “I know this is difficult to hear. And I’m genuinely sorry for having to be the person to bring you this news. I will answer whatever questions you have for me.”

“Is…” Mac shook his head. “Is there a treatment right now? Like—there has to be something, right? We can do something about this?”

The doctor looked solemn as he spoke. “We have some experimental trials going on right now, but as of right now, we don’t have anything to actively fight the virus yet.”

“This is bullshit.” Mac said it quietly at first, like he was still comprehending it, but then he stood up suddenly, letting go of his fiancé and beginning to shout. “This is bullshit! You don’t have anything? Are you fucking kidding me?” Drew tried to take his hand to calm him down, but he pushed it away. His face was beet red. “Half the gays in Manhattan have HIV and no one’s doing anything about it! This is fucking bullshit!”

Dr. Stannard shook his head, genuinely looking remorseful. “Mr. Whelan, I’m sorry. We’re doing what we can. Finding funding for HIV research has been… difficult.”

“I don’t—” Mac grabbed at his own hair, as though to keep himself from doing anything he’d regret. “You don’t… you don’t have anything?” His voice grew quieter, and he sat down in the chair, staring at his lap in defeat. Drew wrapped an arm around his shoulders, trying to suppress his own tears. “How long do we have?”

“It’s hard to say, Mac.” Dr. Stannard clasped his hands together, sighing. “It might be a couple of years. It could be a few months.”

“Months,” Mac repeated hollowly, reaching up to hold Drew’s hand. “Fuck.”

Love of my life,

It’s worse than they thought. I might not live to see next year. I needed to tell you, but I didn’t know if I had the strength to tell you face-to-face. You have to get tested, baby. Get some treatment before it gets worse. And before you start blaming yourself, I don’t blame you in the slightest. This HIV shit is a silent killer. The doc said people can go years without knowing it’s in their bodies. There’s no way you could’ve known you had it. Make sure you check up on Willie, let him know he might have it, too.

I found someone who’ll take care of it for me. It’s not a cure, but it’ll keep me from dying painfully.

Please don’t look for me. You have to live the rest of your life happily without me. I know you can do it. Find another man who’ll make you feel like the queen you are, baby. You deserve so much better than to watch me die. You have to live.

I know this isn’t easy. I know it’s so fucking hard, and horrible, and painful. I didn’t want to leave. But I’ve weighed the options, and letting you watch me die is the worst thing I could do. You’re the most wonderful man in the world, baby. You’re so perfectly imperfect to me. I’d kill anyone in the world just to be with you one last time.

Feel your feelings. I know you’ll be depressed, pissed, begging for one last chance. You feel those feelings as deeply as you can. But you have to move on from them so you can feel happy again with someone who’ll treat you better than I did.

If you have to, forget me. If it makes it easier to move on, pretend like I never existed. But know that I love you like the sky loves its stars, framing them like the beauties they are. I love you like the tides love the moon, moving every night at her command. I love you like a prospector loved gold, traveling thousands of miles just to get a glimpse of the stuff.

And most importantly, I love you more. I will never forget you, Drew.

Lover-boy

“Drew Carey, I know you’re in there. Come here and open this damn door before I bust it down.”

Drew Kelly sat on the kitchen floor, hugging his knees to his chest. He wore nothing but a pair of red boxer briefs and that white, red-trimmed shirt Mac had gotten at his first concert, the one that was big enough to be baggy on Drew. His red hair, normally pulled back tightly into a bun, was hanging down messily in his eyes. The record player sat on the kitchen counter just above him – it was playing Love of my Life by Queen, one of Mac’s favorite singles.

He couldn’t hear himself crying anymore, couldn’t feel the tears burning his red cheeks. It took a couple of times for him to hear Deloreah’s voice through the front door, and even then, he didn’t think he had the strength to get up. But once Deloreah made that threat, he sighed, wiping his eyes and stumbling up to his feet.

Deloreah’s face quickly changed from stern to pitying as soon as Drew opened the door – he wouldn’t even look up at her. “Oh, baby.” She immediately stepped inside, wrapping her arms around the redhead and embracing him snugly. “Thank you for openin’ the door, baby. Let’s go sit down, sweet boy – you look like you’re about to pass out.” She closed the door and locked it before leading him to the beat-up, hideous red couch in his living room. Drew collapsed in his seat, and Deloreah kissed the top of his head, walking over to the kitchen to turn the record player off. “You ain’t eaten nothing today, I can tell.”

“Not hungry,” Drew mumbled, bringing his knees up to his chest and hiding his face down between them.

Deloreah sighed, putting her hand on her hip as she turned to look at him. “You gotta get somethin’ in your stomach, Drew. You’re gonna start gettin’ sick.” Drew didn’t respond, merely started sniffling. Her face fell, and she came back over to him, sitting next to him and beginning to rub his back soothingly. “I know, baby. I know it hurts. Nothin’ hurts more than losin’ the love of your life.” She took a deep breath, glancing around the filthy apartment. “But... it’s been three months. You haven’t even gone to the doctor yet. I don’t want you starvin’ to death.”

Drew began to cry quietly, keeping his head between his knees. “What’s the fucking point?” he whispered. “I love him more than I love breathing, and he’s just... gone. He’s just fucking gone.”

“He wouldn’t want you slowly killin’ yourself,” Deloreah started.

But Drew suddenly looked up at her, harshly wiping the tears drenching his face. “I didn’t want him to leave, but here we are!” He was beginning to ramble angrily – not at Deloreah, but at himself. “Nobody gets what they want! I met the love of my life at the wrong time, and now I’m gonna--” Drew’s face suddenly fell, and he let out a soft, trembling gasp, more tears streaming down his cheeks. “Fuck. I’m gonna die alone. I killed the love of my life. I gave him AIDS, and now I’m paying for it,” he sobbed, grabbing tightly onto his hair. “I was a slut! I was a fucking whore before I met him, and I thought everything was just gonna be okay, like a goddamn moron!”

“Shut your damn mouth for two seconds,” Deloreah said sternly, raising her voice just a bit. Drew clenched his eyes shut, pressing his face between his knees again. “You are not a moron,” Deloreah murmured, rubbing his back affectionately again. “And you weren’t no slut, either. You were living your life, sweet pea, and things got complicated too quickly. This doesn’t have nothin’ to do with you or anything you’ve done.”

Drew cried quietly, hugging his knees tightly. Deloreah sighed, scooting closer and pulling him into her side to hold him tightly. “It’s just bad luck, baby. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with you. Just bad luck.”

#rdshepardwriting #aids crisis #hiv/aids #fiction #supernatural genre #romance #original writing #unholiest novel #unholiest chap 1 #gay fiction #gay romance #lgbtq fiction #queer fiction

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the-wings-of-freedom-only · 4 years ago

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HELP Terminated without warning never comment to anyone on my channel or on anyone else's channel i had 3 videos upload to my channel the first video no copyright claims came back the other 2 videos passed the copyright test and was approved to be uploaded under fair use without monetization the titles was just that the original title nothing misleading rule of thumb 5 to 10 tags at most simple tags only referring to each videos content is how I went about it I put popular social media links in my description such as a cool youtube channel my kdp book that I own as a author and of course pintrest Seeing as you can also link websites and social media accounts to your YouTube page background cover I figured I was safe doing that in my description as well everywhere I go on YouTube all big and small youtubers do it I even told YouTube if that was the issue I would remove it but why make description links clickable if this action is not allowed my case was denied one time and they say you can always appeal again so I did and team youtube on Twitter said they wont be reviewing my case no more and that I was straight up terminated for spam.....? nothing else but spam apparently after I gave them proof of a email I got 7 days after the termination that my account did not in fact get no copyright strikes for content they go on to tell me this bit of news only after I show email proof cause I was so believing that I striked out big time normally they don't tell anyone nothing as to why they get terminated not even youtubers with millions upon millions of subscribers strange and "let's just say" I was in the wrong unknowingly is this really a means for a full on termination never to be able to have a YouTube again ever in life over social links in my own description one being a link to YouTube itself 7 years good standing and that dosen't matter either

#youtube community #youtube creator #terminated account #suspended accounts #community guidelines #Trusted flaggers

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elcorreodetorreon · 6 years ago

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Mexico's drugs war: in the city of death

It was just another massacre in a country plagued by violence. But this time it was carried out by prison inmates – who'd been let out specially

Rory Carroll

@rorycarroll72

Thu 16 Sep 2010 15.30 EDTFirst published on Thu 16 Sep 2010 15.30 EDT

It was past midnight and the hired band had launched into a raucous ballad, La Cabrona, to wind up the party. Guests joined in, belting out lyrics in a singsong under a Chihuahuan desert moon: "Dime si ya no me quieres cabrona . . ."

The Italia Inn, a walled compound for rent with a courtyard, kitchen and swimming pool, was a great spot for the fiesta. "Everything was going really well," says Hector, the band's 17-year-old trumpet player.

Nobody heard the vehicles pull up on the dirt track outside or saw the gunmen surround the compound. The first salvo, fired from outside, tore through the garage doors. The band members bore the brunt. Five collapsed in a tangled, bloodied heap. Moments later, the killers stormed into the yard, assault rifles blazing. People screamed and scrambled for cover. Bodies crumpled.

One gunman picked his way through the wounded and taunted them before finishing them off, recalls Hector, who does not want his full name published. "Cry!" the gunman ordered one of the musicians, putting a gun to his temple. "Cry!" The terrified man could only pray. The gunman prepared to fire when a command rang out. "Trabajo hecho, vámonos!"Job done, let's go. The killer lowered his rifle and grinned at the musician. "You're lucky."

Seventeen people died and dozens were injured in the 18 July attack, one of the worst massacres in Mexico's drug war. The crime scene is supposed to be guarded but on a recent morning it was possible to step over the yellow police tape, trodden into the dirt, and pick over the courtyard debris: a scuffed brown shoe, whisky bottles, plates with decomposing sludge. Beer cans bobbed in the stagnant pool and sunlight seeped through 24 raisin-sized holes in the kitchen door. Blood smeared the floor and fridge. Windows were smashed, walls pockmarked. Only the silence was unbroken.

A massacre in Mexico tends to have a short news life. Perpetrators vanish and the deed is eclipsed by the next atrocity, and the one after that. Horrors flow so fast that they lose definition and morph into a single, numbing narrative.

This one was different. When the killers sped away that night it was not the end of the story, but the beginning. The attack set in motion a saga of kidnapping, YouTube video clips, revenge and media blackmail, which exposed a harsh, revealing truth about Mexico in the run-up to this week's celebrations for the 200th anniversary of independence. It is a state colonised by organised crime.

Fly north from Mexico City and the landscape below browns into cauterised scrub. Roads and railway lines, black etchings in caramel plains, eventually converge on a glinting sea of tin-roofed sheds, houses and factories. This is Torreón –"the city that conquered the desert". The first thing you notice is the blinding glare of the sun. The second is a relentless, throbbing heat.

The main drag, Boulevard Independencia, could be Texas: pick-up trucks, gas stations, strip malls, Wal-Mart, Baskin-Robbins. You know the Rio Grande must be close because the coffee – watery americano and only watery americano – sucks. The radio, at least, boasts Latin flavour: upbeat, foot-tapping cumbia music. "For dancing with beautiful women!" smiles the taxi-driver. It is about the cheeriest statement I will hear in Torreón.

The local tabloid, Express, seems to have been written by Dante. Page after page of shootings, stranglings, stabbings, burnings, shallow graves, deep graves, mass graves. Advertisements for spiritual healing compete with those for funeral homes. "Miguel's: best quality coffins at affordable prices." One bright spot is an ad for 600 new jobs to armour-plate cars.

For a country in the throes of a war that has claimed 28,000 lives in four years it is perhaps little surprise that a transport hub such as Torreón, intersection for cocaine, heroin, marijuana and methamphetamines, is grim. Murders among the population of 550,000 average three per day. Two massacres in city bars preceded the attack on the Italia Inn party, a bloodbath made worse by the fact the victims had no connection to drug trafficking.

The atrocity's apparent motive was a display of strength by the Sinaloa cartel in its battle to oust a rival group, the Zetas, from Torreón. "It's a turf war, and they'll kill anyone," says Carlos Bibiano Villa, Torreón's police chief. The day after the attack, the Zetas, keen to show they still controlled the city, left four human heads with a note saying the massacre's perpetrators had been punished. Decapitation, once unheard of in Mexico, has become routine.

The scene of the 18 July massacre in Torreón. Photograph: STR/Associated Press

What came next, however, was new. The Zetas, after killing the four probably random and innocent unfortunates, really did investigate the massacre. The result was a harrowing video uploaded on YouTube. Rodolfo Nájera, bruised, swollen and stripped, gazed into the camera with a confession. The 35-year-old kidnapped policeman, flanked by masked gunmen, must have guessed how the video would end. Asked by an off-camera interrogator about the Italia Inn massacre, Nájera said the killers were Sinaloa members allowed out of prison for nocturnal hits. Guards lent them guns and vehicles. "Who let them out?" barked the voice. "The director," replied the doomed man. The video ends minutes later with a shot to the head.

A tortured confession would hardly be credible except that in this case it was true. The attorney general confirmed the story. Forensic results showed the massacre victims were shot with R-15 rifles – standard issue for prison guards. Federal authorities swooped on the prison and detained the guards. The director, a stout, formidable blonde named Margarita Rojas Rodriguez, who had recently been named "woman of the year 2010" by the state governor, was also arrested. "Disbelief. I just couldn't believe it. I had never heard of something like this," says Eduardo Olmos, Torreón's mayor.

The prison is in Gómez Palacio, a city in Durango state, whereas Torreón is in Coahuila state. But it takes just a few minutes to cross the bridge linking them. Along with the city of Lerdo, they really form one metropolis of just over one million people in a desert bowl that used to be a lagoon. Each state and city has its own police force and jail, a byzantine mess of overlapping institutions and rivalries. It has helped drug traffickers with ample "plomo y plata" – lead and silver, bullets and money – to worm through officialdom like a ripe mango.

From the outside, Gómez Palacio's jail, rising from a dusty plain, looks the part: high white walls, barriers, watch-towers. Officially, it is a "centre for social readaptation", an Orwellian touch. Mothers, wives and girlfriends, the latter in their best jeans and makeup, queue with groceries to get in. The Sinaloa cartel, Mexico's oldest and most powerful, in effect runs the place. A state surrender coyly termed "auto-gobierno", self-government. If you belong to a rival group, odds are you will be carried out in a bodybag. If you cannot pay "cuota", a levy, you sleep outdoors or in a sort of kennel.

Waiting gunmen recently killed three prisoners who had served their time and were leaving the jail on what turned out to be a short walk to freedom. Guards are routinely murdered inside and outside the jail. It is thought Rojas possibly acted more out of fear than greed in allegedly allowing hitmen to borrow guards' vehicles and weapons for nocturnal murder missions.

The next twist came when inmates rioted in protest at Rojas's removal and demanded her reinstatement. The media drove down the one, potholed road leading to the jail to cover the disturbances – and were duly kidnapped: two cameramen from the Televisa network and two reporters from the newspaper group Milenio. The Sinaloa cartel, jealous of the Zetas' YouTube success, demanded that local networks air three of their own videos in return for the hostages.

"This was totally unprecedented. It was brazen blackmail," says one media executive, who asked not to be named. "You couldn't believe these guys were doing this. Things kept reaching new levels of, of . . ." – he searches for the word – "incredibleness." The TV stations broadcast the videos, which turned out to be of frightened police officers accusing colleagues of working for the Zetas. The cameramen and reporters were freed and moved to safe houses in Mexico City. The fate of the police in the videos was unclear.

Javier Garza, sipping Starbucks coffee under a broiling sun, shakes his head. "This is not the place I grew up in." The director of��El Siglo de Torreón, the main local newspaper, used to associate the city with progress. Torreón had a bloody role in Pancho Villa's campaign against federal forces in the Mexican revolution but later grew into an economic and industrial hub for ranching, textiles, metallurgy and engineering. It built universities, fountains, a music academy, a championship-winning football team. By the 1990s, when Garza left to study and work in Mexico City and the US, Torreón embodied a newly confident, democratic, thriving Mexico. A hilltop Christ the Redeemer statue, just marginally shorter than Rio's, opened its arms to embrace the city that conquered the desert.

When Garza returned in 2006 to take the reins at El Siglo, local news focused on water scarcity, schools, public works and the football club's battle against relegation. Drugs flowed discreetly north, and flash millionaires built fancy properties, but that was hardly new. Narco-trafficking co-existed with society. "It was peaceful. You could go out and have fun without any problem," says Garza.

That same year, however, things began to change. A drug pusher was shot dead, then a taxi driver, then there was an attack on a wealthy former mayor, the kidnap of a police commander. Homicide rates soared. The same pattern unfolded across much of Mexico. President Felipe Calderón had declared war on the cartels but not anticipated a bloodbath.

Torreón, patrolled by soldiers and police with masks, with shootouts and corpses daily, is enduring violence not seen since the revolution, says Garza. "Instead of being a city of the future, it's like we've closed a circle with the past," he says.

Eduardo Olmos, mayor of Torreón: 'What people tell me is that they want things to go back to the way they were.' Photograph: Rory Carroll for the Guardian

Streets empty after dusk. Staff at the hospital stack corpses for want of space and cower when narcos with AK-47s storm through the wards, seeking rivals. Tens of thousands of Facebook users pledged to attend two protest rallies against the violence but, after rumours of planned attacks, just dozens showed up.

In his city hall office overlooking Plaza de Armas, the mayor, Eduardo Olmos, with a retinue of eight bodyguards, ponders the question of how it all happened. "The police," he sighs. "They came in through the police. They bribed, threatened and recruited them and were able to use their radios, vehicles, weapons, bulletproof vests, everything." By some estimates the cartels have a $100m budget for infiltrating police nationwide. It was a gradual process, says the mayor. "The police relaxed their ethics and discipline and just gave in. In the end they weren't working for them. They were them."

Poverty and unemployment, said Olmos, helped organised crime to recruit and work at street level. "Here the gangs don't hand out free meals like in other cities. They don't have popular support. But there is a lot of tolerance for them. If that turns into support, that will be very dangerous. The only answer is education and employment. And a new police force."

Few would argue with that, but what about legalising drugs? Or allowing one cartel to prevail and restore the era of peaceful co-existence with narco-trafficking? The mayor shifts in his seat. The first option, though backed by thinktanks and at least two Mexican ex-presidents, remains controversial. The second remains taboo, at least officially. "What people tell me is they want tranquility, for things to go back to the way they were," says Olmos, choosing his words carefully. "I may have my own views on the subject, but as an elected official I can't talk about benefitting one cartel or another."

It is alleged that across Mexico some authorities are indeed picking sides in the hope a "winning" cartel or coalition will emerge and end the mayhem. Torreón, at least for now, appears to be betting on a new police force. The city recently fired its entire 1,200-strong force and hired an ex-army general, Carlos Bibiano Villa, to build a new one from scratch. Other cities, notably Ciudad Juárez, have tried that and failed. Villa, however, does not lack confidence. A bear of a man with a moustache and .44 Magnum strapped to his thigh, he keeps a helmet, flak jacket, assault rifle and four walkie-talkies within reach of his desk.

"There were 1,200 police when I arrived and they were all corrupt, the enemy within. I couldn't trust any of them. Now I've got 526 new ones and we're recruiting more." Does he trust them? The general guffaws. "I don't trust my own shadow. That's how I survived 43 years in the army."

Villa, 61, has a PhD in satellite communications but comes across as a wannabe Rambo. With cartels and former police officers gunning for him he sleeps in a small room beside his office where there is another Magnum under the pillow. His family lives in an undisclosed state. He acknowledges geography and economics mean that drugs will always pass through Torreón, yet remains bullish. "We are going to win!" How? "With a hard hand."

Later that night, one of Villa's 12 personal bodyguards is kidnapped and beheaded.

The force's model officer is Raquel Quezada. The 40-year-old mother of two is the sole member of the previous force who passed the vetting and exams. Hollywood would probably dub her the Last Honest Cop. In fact, the former secretary was inspired to sign up by Demi Moore's character being "pushed to the limit" in the film G.I. Jane. On patrol, the soft-spoken Quezada is transformed by body armour, a rifle and skull-painted mask. To prepare for her new job, Quezada ran 10km every day and lost 6kg in gruelling training. "They taught me to control fear and manage risk. This work is dangerous but noble."

Authorities hope to keep the new force honest by promising a free house to every officer who completes 10 years without blemish. A significant carrot, but it is questionable if it can compete with narco threats and cash.

In a different part of the city, a family in a small, pink house makes its own calculations. A dead father and husband. A dead uncle and brother. Three wounded family members. A baby on the way. Funeral and medical bills. It adds up, says Carmen, 37, the eight-months pregnant head of the family and mother of Hector. "I just don't know what we'll do." Hector, who took two bullets, moves slowly and stiffly, a colostomy bag beneath his T-shirt.

Asked if he will play trumpet again Hector shakes his head. "Music, music is . . ." his voice trails off. His mother finishes the sentence. "Music is not really an option any more."

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wendibird · 7 years ago

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A Witch with a Sandwich on a Sandy Picnic

Summary: Rowena decided a picnic was in order, and a certain exclusive golf course had a beautiful patch of sand just perfect for the occasion. Of course, ulterior motives were at play, and she and her Road Trip buddy, Charlie, were up to some mischief, but what does one expect from two fiery red-heads like them? Characters: Rowena & AU Charlie, (Sam mentioned) Ships: None explicitly stated (though if you DO ship Rowena/Charlie, it doesn’t outright deny it) Word Count: 1536 Cross-posted to AO3 at: https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/14961677 Author's Note: This is actually my response to the GISH puzzle challenge titled "We Put a Spell On You" where we were supposed to find any creative way we wanted to depict the answer to the riddle. The answer itself is the title of my piece, and what you see here is the result of me picturing a certain red-headed witch eating a sandwich at a picnic someplace sandy. It went through a few variations, (originally, it was MUCH more bloody, but, I figured present-day Rowena is trying to turn over a new leaf and all,) and I hope people enjoy it for the fun piece it's meant to be. (I also hope the PTB at GISH will accept this as my artistic rendering, since I kind of suck at drawing anything other than trees and rocks. *LOL*)

Also, this takes place sometime between the end of episode 13X22 and most of what happens in 13X23.

The sun which beat down with unrelenting intensity was reflected back up again by the bright sand and would have proven horribly uncomfortable for the ginger-haired witch if it weren't for the large, colorfully striped beach umbrella under which she lounged on a blanket. Just next to her was a little wooden table on which perched a cocktail, the glass beading with condensation as well as a small plate with tiny cucumber sandwiches, all de-crusted and cut into dainty triangles.

She languidly selected one from the plate, her nails, the deep red of scabs, complimented the plum-colored dress she wore, and took a bite, savoring the cream-cheese spread used, seasoned with dill and a hint of roasted red-pepper. "Och, Peter, I must say, your chefs here are quite up to par." She then laughed a little at the unintended pun as Peter, a tall, tanned, dark-haired young man smiled in a manner that could only be considered solicitous.

"We all strive to do our best, Miss Rowena," he responded, bowing his head a little, the earpiece that had formerly been in his left ear now dangling from where it emerged from under his shirt collar. He had also loosened the straps on his utility vest which had SECURITY in large, white, block letters emblazoned across the back.

On Rowena's other side another man in security clothing waved a large fan towards the witch while a third man wearing the clothes of a golf caddy was busy peeling a small bowl of grapes.

A few others in various clothing ranging from security personal to caddies to waiters all seemed engaged in some task or another for the red-head. Some fetched food, one was plumping a pillow behind her, and a middle-aged, somewhat plump man who was wearing expensive golfing clothes was quite busy giving her a foot massage.

From further off, yet another security man cautiously approached the sand trap on which Rowena had set up her little picnic, the brilliant green grass of the golf-course contrasting sharply with his black attire. He tilted his head a little as something apparently came to him over his earpiece. "Negative," he responded in a low tone, "still no indication as to why Jones and the others haven't apprehended the... security risk," he finished, not seeming too sure of what to call her exactly. "Moving in now."

As he drew a bit closer he paused, a look of confusion blooming on his face as he got a better look at the scene before him. "Um... the Senator has been located. He... uh... he seems... er... it appears he's giving the "security risk" a foot massage." He winced a bit as a sharp response came over the earpiece. "No, I am NOT making this up!" he loud-whispered. "Everyone else is accounted for. No one appears to be injured but... no one's... well, acting right. I'll try to move in closer to see if I can make contact."

As he indeed moved closer he crossed an unseen barrier, one formed by the 5 hex-bags Rowena had placed around her little beach oasis amongst the rolling fields of green, and his eyes briefly flashed with a violet light before his entire demeanor changed. Where before he had been tightly wound, like a cat stalking its prey, he now relaxed, holstering his gun as a somewhat vague but happy smile spread over his face. When the voice on the other end of the earpiece continued squawking at him, he simply pulled it out as the others before him had done and continued walking towards the sand trap at a leisurely saunter.

Rowena looked up, lowering her sunglasses a bit to better appraise the newcomer approaching them. "Well, aren't you a tall drink o' water?" she observed of the man who flashed her a cheery grin. "Why don't ye help Julio over there with the grapes?" she suggested as she gestured towards the shorter man.

Nodding, the man hopped down into the trap and walked over to Julio who moved over just a bit to give the other guy room. Just then, the distinct tones of "Scotland the Brave" jingled from her little clutch-purse and with a world-weary sigh, Rowena retrieved her phone and answered. "Yes Charlie dear, everything's going splendid. Have ye finished with all your computer-y mumbo-jumbo yet?" She waited as the voice on the other end of the line chattered away for a few moments. "Excellent! I'll just wrap things up here and meet ye at the rendezvous in five minutes."

With that, she ended the call, dropping her phone back into her clutch purse. Seeming to know what she wanted, the Senator had already started putting her glitzy, bronze-looking sandals back on her feet, and once that was done, she beckoned Peter over who gave her a hand standing back up again. The one who'd been fanning her set about retrieving the blanket and after he and another shook the sand from it, they folded it up carefully. Julio and the newest addition to her appropriated "staff" eagerly presented her with the bowl of peeled grapes, which she happily took, along with the blanket which was draped over her other arm. Someone else had already collapsed the beach umbrella and now they handed her that too.

Seeming satisfied, she fished a 6th hex bag out of her clutch-purse and muttered an incantation. Everyone who'd been under her spell all started yawning before apparently deciding it was a great time for a nap and began laying down wherever they stood. Once everyone was down and out she dropped the hex bag and said a few more words in Latin and that one, along with the five others arrayed out around her burst into flames. She then sauntered away, heading for a gap in the fencing through which she'd entered the golf course in the first place.

Waiting just on the other side was a little yellow Prius with the hatch already popped open. After depositing the blanket and umbrella inside, she closed it and went around to the passenger side, climbing in. Extending the crystal bowl of peeled grapes to the other red-head, she removed her sunglasses and quirked an eyebrow, smiling mischievously. "Well, that went well."

Charlie giggled and happily plunked one of the grapes into her mouth before hitting the gas. "Definitely! I was able to hack into ALL of that douche-bag's tech he had with him. His phone, his tablet, his laptop. You would not BELIEVE the things he's kept on that, by the way."

Rowena sighed happily and enjoyed one of the grapes herself, leaning her head back as her co-conspirator rattled on.

"I got his passwords for his porn subscriptions, especially the VERY illegal ones, texts between him and his mistress, his account info for the rather expensive escort business he patronizes regularly, not to mention all the e-mails talking about the bribes for this, that, and the other-" Rowena made a shushing gesture as she finished chewing a grape.

"Yes, yes, I get the picture. Lots o' dirt on the filthy blighter... though, I will say he gives a good foot massage, but now what are ye goin' to do with it?"

Charlie grinned as she reached over, taking another grape herself. "Already done. While I was still connected to their server, I uploaded it to several news outlets as well as a bunch of online forums. That way if they try to trace any of it, it'll just lead back to the golf course. Which, by the way, is owned by our supreme ruler-in-chief."

Rowena just smiled as Charlie got them onto the freeway, heading for the open road. "So..." Charlie hedged a little, "Your distraction sure seemed to work. No one even noticed what I was up to. But, everyone's okay, right?"

Rowena rolled her eyes a little but nodded. "Don't be worryin' about that. None of em'll remember a thing, and no one got hurt. They're all takin a nice nap, and should be wakin up..." she took a moment to consult the gold, locket-like pendant watch hanging around her neck, "eh, in about five more minutes."

Charlie smiled with relief. "Good! Cause, they're all just-"

"Doin' their jobs." Rowena finished for her, chuckling a little herself. "I know, I know. Trust me, Samuel already gave me "the talk" before you an I left."

Charlie nodded emphatically. "So... what's next on our itinerary?"

"Ah, I don't know." Despite the attempted bored look she was affecting, mischief glinted from the witch's green eyes. "There's a certain Orange Baboon that could stand to be taken down a peg or two from what I hear."

Charlie grinned. "Oooo... Secret Service. You're actually gonna make me flex my muscles on this one."

"Practice makes perfect m'dear." Rowena sing-songed. "I have my witchery an' ye have yours. An clever witches can make strange magic happen in the world."

Charlie titled her head a bit, a contemplative look on her face. "Does this make me a technomancer?"

Since Rowena wasn't quite sure what that was, she just chuckled and popped an Enya CD into the player, and the ladies drove on towards the next destination on their extended adventure.

#Supernatural #SPN #SPN Fanfiction #GISH #GishWitch Challenge #Rowena #Charlie Bradbury #Road Trip #Picnic #Sandwich #I can't art so I wrote instead #First SPN fanfic!

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whispersandwhiskerburn · 8 years ago

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An All Hallows’ Haunting

Summary: Dean, Sam, and Reader take on a case featuring one of America’s oldest ghost legends: the Headless Horseman...who rides on Halloween. Pairing: Dean x Reader Word Count: 6,745....holy shit, how did that happen? Warnings: A few pieces of language, a bit of suspense...nothing really. Author’s Note: I tried to make this extremely canon-style in characterization, plot, everything. This is a late contribution to my dear friend @plaidstiel-wormstache‘s Halloween celebration (thanks for the prompt, patience, and proof-reading!). I actually met her last Halloween when she asked me to beta a The Nightmare Before Christmas x SPN fic , so when she hosted, I had to get a TNBC prompt for this fic: “She’s the only one who makes any sense in this insane asylum”. Look for it along with some familiar characters from Burton’s animated holiday classic. Feedback is always appreciated!

“Seriously, you guys don’t do anything for Halloween?”

You had found the Winchesters on a hunt back in January, and you and Dean had officially gotten together in April… this was your first fall with them and you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. The younger one smiled wryly, “let’s just say it carries its own brand of nightmares.”

“Yeah, once you’ve dodged Samhain himself, the whole idea of celebrating the season kind of loses its shine…plus, you know, we’ve been kind of busy.”

You nodded, understanding. In the past few months you had been there as Dean darkened under the curse of the Mark and had helped the brothers patch it up after Sam had gone behind both of your backs to get it removed by Rowena. You understood why he had done it… and you couldn’t feel bad about it, no matter what happened with Amara.

You were thankful to have Dean back. You weren’t ashamed of that.

You tried to get them back to the lighter topics—a role you were used to filling with the Winchesters. “Come on! Costumes, candy, trick or treating, pumpkins… pie?” Dean chuckled, and you smiled, “fall has its plusses. Halloween’s only a few days away, and we haven’t made any plans!”

“Don’t get me wrong, Y/N, if you’re planning to dress up, I’m all in for that.” Dean quit wagging his eyebrows long enough to dodge the French fry his brother tossed at his head.

“Sorry you two—your dress up activities are going to have to be postponed. It looks like we might have a case.”

Dean sat up, and so did you, ready to be a bit more serious. Sam was scanning the computer screen in front of him.

“Charlie” Sam struggled with her name and all three of you flinched, “flagged this when she uploaded the men of letters files and a bunch of the hunter’s journals that we pulled out of Bobby’s storage—a reoccurring haunting. Dean, you remember the Morton house with the janitor guy who showed up every leap year?” Dean nodded, and you shrugged.

“Kinda like that. Except the pattern on this one is much more spaced out, which is probably why no other hunter has ever caught it. Apparently, every 24 years there’s a rash of beheadings on Halloween near a place called Tarrytown, New York, about a half hour north of Manhattan. The residents link it to a local legend and get this—the spirit of a headless horseman.” Sam scoffed the last words and Dean shot a quizzical look at you.

“You mean the dude with the pumpkin chasing the goofy looking guy in the cartoon?”

“You’re talking about the short story by… Irving, I think?” You thought back to your community college English class— “’The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’. You’re telling me it’s real?”

Sam nodded, closing his computer. “According to Bobby, which is good enough for me. Looks like the horseman’s due to ride this year, so I’ll see you in the garage in ten?”

You slid back your chair, standing up at the same time Dean did. As Sam stalked off down the hallway, you pulled Dean close for a quick kiss.

“I’m taking a rain check on that dress up challenge, Winchester.”

He settled his hands at the nape of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair. “Oh, really? Have you got a French maid costume lying around somewhere?”

You kissed him again, then leaned back as your hands slid down his back to land on his narrow hips.

“Maybe. But now that you’ve put the idea in my head, I’m not gonna rest until I see this ass,” you squeezed his cheeks, and he settled his hips closer into yours, “in cowboy chaps.”

He was already leaning in for another kiss when he processed what you said, and leaned back to laugh—one of those good belly deep laughs that crinkled the corners of his eyes and brought an involuntary smile to your face. With everything going on, it was good that you were still able to make him let loose like that.

“Now come on, Cowboy. Let’s go take care of this horseman.”

He gave you a good ol’ boy wink and drawled, “yes ma’am.”

Trailing the Impala through the northern part of the country on your motorcycle had been a visual treat. You’d always enjoyed a long ride, the music in your one earbud the modern kind that Dean hated, and you could never get enough of, and the fall colors in the trees were just incredibly gorgeous.

They’d stopped a little way past Chicago for the night, and despite the good food, Sam and Dean had been in an irritable mood. Dean hated traffic and Sam had been trying to do research on the case, and had found that separating the fact from the fiction when it came to this famous ghost was a bit of a headache.

“It’s like researching Bloody Mary all over again,” he grumbled as they set off in the car again the next morning. You were relieved to get back to the drive—the brothers were less likely to be whiny when they actually got to the job.

You were surprised when you saw Dean flash his blinker, signaling a turn when the sign you just passed said Tarrytown was straight ahead. When he slowed at the next stop sign you pulled up beside driver’s door as he lowered the window, putting one foot on the ground as your bike idled.

“Sam’s found a current address to a contact from Bobby’s journal—a guy named Jack Bones. He lives kinda off the beaten track, but since we’ve only got two days till Halloween, we figured we’d stop there, see if he could fill in any blanks.”

You nodded your agreement, and Dean pulled out on the road again with you following.

It wasn’t a full ten minutes later when you reached the end of a rough driveway and found a huge garden, overflowing with pumpkins, complete with a sign detailing prices. You smiled, looking around to find the rustic house and it’s wrap-a-round porch. You decided immediately that you liked it, and whomever had decorated the porch with fall mums.

You had parked closer than the boys and you were already leaning down to smell the bright flowers when you heard the door slam on the Impala.

“Hello, there. Are you here to buy a pumpkin from the Pumpkin King?”

You looked up to see the skinniest man you’d ever laid eyes on—his eyes were sunken in, and for a moment, he seemed more like a walking skeleton than a human being. Then he stepped out into the sunlight, and you could see his bald head and wide welcoming smile.

You returned his smile, “no, sorry. I’m looking for a Jack Bones, not a Jack-o-lantern.”

You saw Dean and Sam out of the corner of your eye as they walked up behind you and you stood up.

“That’d be me—call me Jack. Doll?” He called back through the screen door into the house, “were we expecting company?”

“Not to my knowledge.” The feminine voice was followed by striking older lady with shoulder length auburn hair wearing a colorful sundress despite the chilly October air.

Sam took a step forward, smiling disarmingly. “Hi, my name is Sam Winchester, this is my brother Dean, and this is Y/N. We heard your name through Bobby—”

“Singer. Yeah he mentioned you two boys as well.” The smile was gone from the old man’s face and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Where is he? I’ve been expecting him for days.”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks and you saw a hint of pain flash across their faces. You took Dean’s hand on instinct, squeezing it in support. You saw Mrs. Bones walk closer behind her husband, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Jack, but Bobby died almost three years ago.” You kept your voice gentle, sad to give the news. You’d never met the man who had helped raise the Winchesters, but you knew he had been a great man.

Jack nodded, his smile tightening to a thin line. “I thought that might be the case. It sure is going to make this thing harder though.”

The silence then was thick and awkward until Mrs. Bones stepped in front of her husband, “I’m sorry for your loss. My name is Sally. Would you like to come in? I’ve got an apple pie cooling off—and I’ve always found that hard news and hard times are made lighter with good food.”

Jack seemed to shake off his melancholy and turned to look down at the woman beside him, smiling. “Thanks, Sally.”

He turned to face us, “I always listen to her--she’s the only one who makes any sense in this insane asylum of a town. You folks come on in and we’ll talk about what Bobby left you to do.”

Sam stepped up on the porch and Dean followed, your hand still folded inside his.

“Local tales differ on who the Hessian is—it gets tangled up with the Sleepy Hollow legend that made the town famous, but Irving didn’t write that story until 1819, after the Horseman had already ridden once twenty years before that.

“The real story gets mixed up with that quite a lot.”

Jack was leaned back, having swallowed his slice of pie in about four bites, and seemed ready to tell a story. Dean had scored two slices with a compliment to Sally’s cooking, and she looked on him fondly as he obviously relished every bite. You and Sam were more interested in what Jack had to say than the pie, but you were both taking small bites to be polite.

“I noticed—trying to separate fact from fiction online was difficult. If it hadn’t been for Bobby’s notes, I wouldn’t have believed there was really anything supernatural here.”

Sally laughed at that, “oh, there’s definitely something supernatural here. The Hessian’s ghost gets hyped up for the tourists, but we grew up here—we know the truth. The Hessian is the boogeyman that parents frighten their kids with…until the 24-year mark get close, then the newest generation gets told the truth.”

You put your fork down, sliding what was left of your pie towards Dean. “That was delicious, Sally, thank you. Can you two tell us what you actually know for sure about this ghost?” Sally nodded, then gestured to Jack to do the talking.

“Well, what is generally known by everyone who grows up here and who is willing to believe is fairly straightforward. The horseman, we call him the Hessian, was 24 years old when he was executed by beheading. The man was a murdering coward in life: he killed his superior officer to advance in the ranks of the British army, but when the battles started to get heavy with the Continental Army, he deserted his men. Most of his battalion died. He was captured, tried, and found guilty before being executed on Halloween in 1775.

“Except he comes back every 24 years—this will be his tenth visit. It always starts on the full moon in October when the Hessian rides away from where the battle was fought and into the woods. He rides again every night after that, retracing his desertion. And on October 31st, at least one person in the surrounding area loses his head, quite literally. Then the Hessian vanishes for another 24 years.”

Jack gathered up the empty pie plates after Dean scraped the last of yours clean. He moved to the sink to wash them off and Sally picked up the narrative with the smoothness of a couple who has been together for a long time.

“It’s not the full story, but it’s enough detail to convince most kids to stay out of the way of the Hessian. Not that it does much good. The victims of the horseman are found along his ride, but most of them go missing from their homes, and sometimes they are tourists.”

Dean spoke up for the first time since the pie appeared: “there’s got to be something connecting them.”

Jack turned around, wiping his hands on a towel as he smiled, “yeah, Bobby said the same thing. I didn’t believe in the Hessian at all when I was a kid, but that ended when I saw him myself.”

“Well, aren’t you Mr. Unlucky.”

Sally muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Mr. Stubborn maybe.”

Jack came back to his chair, either not hearing or not acknowledging his wife’s comment. “I’ve been around for three visits from the Hessian so far. The first time, I was barely a toddler, so that one probably shouldn’t count…but growing up hearing the stories, I always assumed they were complete crap. So, when the next visit was due when I was 26, I decided to find out the truth for myself.”

“And I told you not to. ‘It’s a mistake, Jack!’ I believe were my exact words.” Sally’s voice was scolding, and you couldn’t help smiling at Dean. They were honestly shaping up to be relationship goals.

Jack still pretended not to hear her and soldiered on.

“That year, ’67—the same year as that car of yours, I think—the full moon was early in the month, more than ten days before Halloween. After hearing so much about it my whole life, and then watching the whole town close up early superstitiously for six days in a row and the bars filled with gossip and whispers, I went out to see for myself what was going on.”

He went silent again and his eyes took on that look that older people always have when they look back on the past.

“We’ll leave it at the fact that I saw him that night. If you three are going after the Hessian, you’ll see him for yourself, and you’ll understand why I don’t try to describe him now.

“In 1991, the town prepared to weather the Hessian’s rides and kills again the best way they knew how—spread the truth to the next generation, close up the town early, laugh it off to the tourists… the usual.” Jack shook his head, his face grim.

“Three people died that year. I knew the Hessian was real, that he was coming, and I did nothing, we all did nothing. And three people died. When Bobby Singer showed up a few days into November and started asking around, it didn’t take him long to find me.

“He sat where you are right now,” he gestured to Dean’s chair, “and the two of us talked about the Hessian and ghosts and the supernatural until he convinced me that the victims had to have something in common.

“So, we started digging. And we didn’t stop until we figured it out. Bobby promised he’d be back this year, or he’d send you boys to finish the job. The horseman’s been riding the past two nights, and the night after next, anyone who has ever ducked a responsibility that resulted in the death of someone else is going to end up as headless as the Hessian.”

You and Sam looked at each other wide-eyed. You hoped you heard wrong, “you mean the horseman goes after cowards?”

Jack made a face like he didn’t know how to word something. Sally stepped into the silence, “not really. The horseman’s victims all have something in common—they had willingly chosen to do something, then failed, and their failure resulted in at least one death. One woman who was beheaded last time was a foster mom and the child accidently drowned when she wasn’t paying attention, another was a safety inspector who signed off on a building that was structurally unsound and collapsed on three people a year later.

“We think he’s not just reliving his failure when he rides away from the battle every night after the full moon. We think he’s also administering the same judgment he received against anyone who committed his crime, since so many died because he abandoned his post.”

The tenseness of Dean’s shoulders wasn’t something you’d seen since the Darkness had been released…which was probably part of the problem. His mind was at the same place yours and Sam’s had gone—Dean, having lost the Mark and released the Darkness on the world, was exactly the type of victim the horseman would go after.

“Are you three okay?” Jack was quick.

Dean stood up from his chair, nodding to Jack and Sally, “thanks for the pie and the help.”

Then he turned and walked out. You shot another look at Sam, gesturing to the older couple, hoping he would come up with some kind of explanation, then you followed Dean outside.

He was leaning against Baby, his eyes on the trees across the road, but much further away.

“Dean, you okay?”

Dean’s eyes didn’t even attempt to meet yours. “Oh, I’m awesome. It’s just been a long two days on the road, and apparently, we’ve got to find a way to kill a ghost when we don’t have a body to salt and burn. And, oh yeah, my neck’s on the chopping block, or Sam’s might be, depending on who this horseman decides to blame for Amara.”

“Hey,” you cupped his cheek, waiting for him to look at you. “Even if that’s all true, we’ve faced lots worse and come out on top. We’ll get through this too.”

You heard the door shut and Sam was walking out to you. Dean shifted slightly, and you backed up, giving him his space.

“I made our goodbyes and got directions to the place where the horseman rides. I also got Jack’s number in case we run into any trouble, or so we can tell him when the job’s done.”

Dean nodded, opening the car door and sliding in. “Let’s go find a hotel and make some kind of plan then.”

He slammed the door shut in a way that telegraphed that his head was still up his ass, so you walked towards your bike. You shrugged at Sam’s raised eyebrow, knowing he’d probably get an earful on the way into town.

As much as you loved the man, sometimes Dean spent too much time and effort dwelling on guilt and things he couldn’t control.

It had been a tense night. It had started as a somewhat reasonable discussion of possible solutions and past cases—everything from a woman in white, to a racist truck, to apparently even a ghost ship that hunted down people who killed family members… the Winchesters really did have quite a resume on spooks.

Soon it had devolved into sullen silences as Dean’s mood continued to worsen as he dwelled on the Amara situation and the guilt he and Sam shared for releasing her. You felt a part of the guilt, but not as much as the boys—it always seemed to you like, ever since they saved the world the first time, they could never get that weight of responsibility off their shoulders.

You had a different outlook. You did what you could, while you could, and let the rest take care of itself.

In the end, it was a grim group that headed out after sunset. According to Jack’s information, we could count on the Hessian to ride tonight, and he only ever appeared along the same path, but not always at the same spots along that path—apparently, he would vanish and reappear as he went.

Sam had gotten a map, and the plan was for the three of you to spread out along the line Sally had drawn, since the ghost wasn’t attacking anyone tonight or tomorrow, and try to spot him. You’d meet up after midnight when the ride was over and compare notes, and, hopefully, figure out a way to gank the bastard tomorrow night.

On the television, Janice Huff had predicted 56° F temperatures tonight, so you had dressed accordingly as the boys suited up in their flannels. Dean was staying with Baby, you took your bike, and Sam was dropped off in between the two of you. He was the fastest runner of the three of you, so it was the most logical way to go, but you could tell it only worsened Dean’s mood.

Something else for the man to worry over.

You were brooding over Dean—his weird connection with Amara, the guilt and pain inside him, his stubbornness—when you realized that a mist had crept over the ground.

That had not been a part of Huff’s weather forecast.

You gripped your salt-shotgun tightly in one hand and opened the video group call you’d set up between you and Winchesters with the other.

“Guys, you seeing this?”

Static.

“Dean? Sam?”

Nothing.

Awesome.

You tucked the phone away and straddled your bike. The mist was getting thicker and the temperature seemed to have dropped at least five degrees in the last few minutes.

You started the motorcycle, and instead of reflecting the light from your headlamp, the mist seemed unaffected by the bright light, but the darkness above the mist was pierced, letting you see nearly 20 yards away—just in time.

He was taller than you expected.

The horse was more shadow and mist than real, but the horseman on his back was much more substantial… or as substantial as a spirit ever seemed to be.

The shoulders seemed far too broad without a neck or head on top. His uniform was mostly navy blue, but covered in mud and scratches. The sound of hooves was thundering, drowning out the growl of the bike between your legs and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

You raised your shotgun to your shoulder, the hair standing up on your neck as he drew closer seeming to aim straight at you, even though you knew you were several yards to the side of his path. You calmed yourself with the knowledge that the Hessian was only going to ride straight by. He was going to keep going. He was not going to attack you. He was—

He was right on top of you.

And he knew you were there.

It was an unnerving sensation—he had no eyes, no reaction, he didn’t once break stride, but he was aware of you. And his awareness was cold, cunning, and powerful.

You pulled the trigger without any conscious decision to do so.

The shot seemed deafeningly loud to you, as if everything else in the world had been muted. Your aim was dead on, and the ghost vanished immediately following your shot, leaving you alone on your bike.

Alone except for the lingering malevolent feeling of being watched and the slowly dissipating mist.

It took a lot to shake you up, but you were officially dreading this hunt. Despite your attempts to make light of your encounter with the Hessian, the boys, who hadn’t seen him last night, had picked up on the fact that something was off.

It might have had something to do with the new screaming nightmare you had added to your collection. It was part of the job, but, somehow, this hunt was different.

Sam was trying to be logical and supportive—asking details, treating you like a witness or a victim on a case in an attempt to gather information and help you get past it.

Dean was playing the part of angry-protective lover.

“If he’s intelligent, and capable of deviating from his pattern, that might be a good thing. It means we can distract him from his pattern, agitate him. We’ll get him to chase us across running water or onto hallowed ground—either one should be the same as salting and burning the bones.”

“Good. This son-of-a-bitch has got to go. But no more splitting up.” Dean had nearly had a heart-attack after hearing your shot last night and not being able to get a call through to you.

You were glad he had gotten over his brooding spell, but this suffocating over-protectiveness wasn’t really an improvement.

“We’ll get the job done, Dean, whatever it takes. I definitely got the feeling he’ll remember me after last night, and we all know that you two will make tempting targets for him considering his preferred victims. I agree that drawing him in shouldn’t be too difficult.” You fought back an internal shudder at the thought of being in that presence again, then scolded yourself internally.

You’d faced so much worse than this ghost.

You realized that you had been pacing the small area between the beds and the door in this crappy motel when you saw the worried glance the brothers traded.

“Guys, I promise, I’m fine. He didn’t touch me. I’m just…antsy.”

“Maybe you should stay behind, Y/N—”

“Dean—” Sam tried to warn his brother off… rather pointlessly. Dean was nothing if not stubbornly protective.

“If this thing has singled you out, maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

You stopped your pacing with your back towards Dean, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath as you focused on the thought, he means well, he means well, he means well.

“And when you thought you or Sam might be the natural target? Did you think about tucking tail and running? Were you willing to take the coward’s way out and risk other people’s lives because of a possibility that you might be in danger? Be like the Hessian, you mean?”

You turned around to see him shifting uncomfortably on the bed and avoiding eye contact with you, because he knew that he would never have backed down from a hunt for that reason. Sam was pointedly looking at his computer and pretending he couldn’t feel the tension in the room.

Tonight was the last night the Hessian would ride without killing someone, at least traditionally. You had a feeling that your attack on him last night might have changed the status quo, but you didn’t have time to cajole Dean with reason.

Sometimes, the man needed to just be told what was what.

“I was on the job before we ever met, Dean. We all know the risks.” You gentled your voice, feeling guilty; you knew his reaction was instinctual and not intentionally insulting, “besides, we know the Hessian isn’t actually limited to his path—his victims get taken from their homes and hotels and left along the way. Staying away wouldn’t keep me any safer, and it certainly wouldn’t help gank this bastard.”

You went and sat next to him, and he finally made eye contact with you.

“So, let’s work together and figure out why he felt so much stronger than any other ghost I’ve ever tangled with. Sam? Any ideas on that?” You turned to face the younger Winchester as you threaded your fingers with Dean’s squeezing in confirmation that the two of you were okay.

He squeezed back.

“Well, there’s his age. Very few ghosts we’ve ever met have been haunting for 240 years. Then there’s the fact that he only seems to manifest for a week or two every ten years, which means he’s not really struggling with the pull of the veil and the mortal world the way most vengeful spirits do, so that might explain why he still seems methodical and not…” Sam trailed off, trying to think of a way to describe the average vengeful spirt you hunted.

“A rabid dog? On ghostly steroids?” Dean offered, and the three of you chucked, the tension finally easing a bit in the room.

Sam nodded, “exactly.”

You thought it out a bit, “and then there’s the fact that he seems to be linked with Halloween. If the legends are right, he was killed on the day, which is all kinds of supernaturally significant: crossing into the spirit world on the night when spirits have the easiest time crossing into the mortal world? And the full moon seems to have a role in this haunting and lore from all over the world links the lunar cycle with supernatural events. It’s no wonder he seems so much more than most ghosts.”

Dean squeezed your hand again, and you realized some of your inner dread had seeped into your voice while you spoke.

You forced yourself to sound more gung ho as you pulled your hand loose and clapped them together, “alright then! Let’s find us some old school holy ground or special running water to get rid of this thing once and for all.”

Dean studied you for a moment, and you knew he could see right through your false bravado. He let it go though, pulling out your computer bags from beside the bed so that you could join Sam in researching.

“Sounds like a plan, sweetheart.”

It had taken a few hours, but you had found a suitable plot of holy land: the site of a colonial church. Dean had taken a certain amount of sadistic pleasure in the idea of forcing a redcoat onto that land to kill him, which you had laughed at, telling him that the ghost’s uniform had actually been blue.

It had been the last moment of frivolity of the evening as you headed out to set up the trap.

Dean had wanted to have Sam on your bike and the two of you in Baby for the taunt and chase scene. You had told him that was stupid, and you weren’t letting Moose ride your girl. You had both backed off when Sam pointed out that the best method would be to keep everyone in one place, since the Hessian might have the ability to separate individuals anyway.

No need to make it easier on him.

You took the backseat since Sam had such a hard time fitting back there without laying out like he was going to take a nap. You had decided to start off where you had seen the horseman last night, and you waited with the car off, all of your eyes peeled for any sight of the ghost or of the strange mist that had preceded him before.

It didn’t take long for the anticipation to burn away to the boredom of any other stakeout.

“Here’s what I don’t get. Why did he go to you in the first place?”

Sam seemed almost disappointed, though whether that was a weird type of jealousy for a missed opportunity or just that he was stumped over a thought he’d apparently been chewing on for a while, it wasn’t clear.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dean turned to look at you, confused at your tone.

You kept your eyes out the window, even though the dark country view and the deserted lane wasn’t what you were really seeing.

“It’s another part of the job. We all accept responsibility when we take on a case. We promise ourselves that we’ll save everyone. We promise we’ll keep our loved ones safe.

“But we’re human. We hesitate. We make mistakes. And in this life, that means people die. It’s always been that way.”

You turned to look at Dean, hoping he would really listen to you. He needed to hear this even more than you needed to say it.

“So, when we lose people—family, like your parents, like Bobby; friends, like Kevin and Charlie, strangers like the ones that draw us to the cases we take on… we feel guilty about it. Even though we do all we can, we still feel like it’s all our fault, like we’ve failed in our responsibilities and someone else paid the price.

“And as long as we’re hunters, it will be that way, until we pay the price ourselves.”

There was a moment of silence in the car, then you continued in a low voice full of certainty. You understood your role in the world, and you understood this ghost.

“That’s why he’ll come after us. Not Amara or the Mark…it’s because we spend our lives taking on impossible fights, and we don’t back down even when we lose.” You looked back out the window, noting what might be the first wisps of mist.

“This guy ran before the fight and died because of it. Even if we weren’t actively hunting him, he’d probably be coming after us because we’re everything he should have been and didn’t have the strength to be.”

A silence descended in the car again that lasted much longer than seemed necessary.

“Damn, Y/N. Deep much?”

You shot a smile at Dean, then pointed towards the thickening mist creeping over the ground. “Looks like we’re about to get this party started, so the philosophical discussions are going to have to be put on hold, boys.”

A moment later the sound of hooves began to vibrate the frame of the vehicle and the mist parted enough to see the insubstantial shadow horse and the much more intimidating headless rider cantering towards them.

“Go, Dean, now!”

Dean cranked up the Impala and hit the gas, shooting down the road. Despite the growl of the 550 horses under Baby’s hood, the supernatural soldier still seemed to be gaining.

“Dean, he’s gaining, go!”

“We’re almost at the church site, how far off is he?”

“50 yards…45 yards… C’mon Dean… 30 yards… 20…”

Dean’s wheels squealed as he turned almost 180° to stare back at the Hessian. The three of you piled out of the car quickly, Sam passing out the salt guns just in case.

Your heart was hammering, watching the horseman come barreling towards you and feeling that awful intent bearing down on you, calling you.

“C’mon, you son of a bitch, c’mon…”

Dean’s mutter grounded you, kept you from panicking as your pulse matched the pounding of the ghostly hooves—and when the sound cut off, so did your heart.

He was gone.

Barely five yards from the boundary line, the Hessian vanished from the lane.

But you could still feel the eyes, the malevolent power in the air, mixing with the mist and raising every hair on your skin.

“Where is he? Can you guys see him?” Sam and Dean didn’t respond, and you looked around frantically.

You were alone.

You pulled your salt-shotgun up to your shoulder and fought back the fear.

“Dean! Where are you?!”

The mostly full moon cut through the ghostly mist as if it wasn’t there and you turned and twisted, wishing you had your back to something, wishing the Winchesters were here.

Then you saw him, looming out of the mist in front of you.

The Hessian, unhorsed, beheaded, and wielding a one-handed sword and standing stock still. It was impossible to say that he was looking at you since he had no eyes, but every muscle and instinct in your body tensed for the fight you could practically taste in the air around you.

You braced and fired, pumped the gun to reload and fired again, all in seconds, sinking two rounds of rock salt center mass in the spirit in front of you.

“Y/N!” Dean was coming.

The Hessian vanished, but the presence was still there. But now, so was Dean, with Sam right behind.

“Are you okay? He snatched you somehow. The church grounds are about 10 yards that way.”

“He’s here somewhere. I got him with rock salt, but he’s not gone. I can tell.”

“There!” Sam pointed at the stalking figure of the headless man and all three of you aimed, but only Sam and Dean got a shot off this time. The ghost vanished, but the anger in the air seemed to increase, the mist having risen from ankle to waist high.

“Guys, we have to get him closer to the border line, force him over somehow.” You started backing towards the direction they came from and you fell into a familiar formation, you leading the way, Sam watching the retreat and Dean between the two of you, alternating from side to side to cover as many angles as possible.

“He was supposed to chase us over the line. How the hell do we get him across now?”

You could see the car ahead and knew you were close to the boundary line, but Dean had pointed out the main problem now.

“I’ve got an idea. Can you two buy me a few minutes? Keep him distracted.” Sam passed you, heading for the Impala while you and Dean went back to back to narrow the angles.

“C’mon you British asshat! Aren’t you sick of running away like a little bitch?”

You loved the man, but Dean was never good with subtlety.

The Hessian formed right in front of him, sword swinging at neck height for the decapitating blow. “Y/N, duck!” You dropped and rolled, coming up on one knee with your gun up. Dean was blocking the sword strokes with his shotgun, but each hit drove him back a step, the power of each swing enough that Dean was quickly losing ground, the sound of metal on metal clanging through the air.

You couldn’t get a clear shot off, so you got up and ran closer, not knowing what you were going to do, but knowing you had to do something.

“Y/N, take this!”

Sam was there, knocking your gun away and shoving something cold, heavy, and metallic into your hands.

“Clothesline him!” He pointed to one side of Dean who, you now realized, was deliberately losing ground to draw the Hessian closer to the border line.

You ran, gripping the metal in your hands tightly as it dragged then went taunt.

“Dean, hit the ground!” Sam’s voice was loud and just in time to avoid hitting Dean with the chain that you realized was stretched between you and Sam. Dean dropped, and though you expected the chain to go through and dissipate the ghost, instead it hit him square in the back, hard enough that you and Sam both swung closer towards him, your momentum dragging him forward.

The chain wrapped around the horseman, dragging him forward the last few feet and across the border onto what used to be church property in his time, and what was still considered hallowed ground.

The chain grew hot in your hands as the Hessian shook and burned, the air growing sharp as the cold intelligent hate you had felt since his appearance crystallized into a mind-piercing screech of pain.

He flickered, flickered, and vanished.

The chain fell to the ground, the mist vanished, and, most telling of all, the malevolent feeling that had been present for every moment of the Horseman’s presence was gone completely.

You flexed your hands, slightly burned and sore from gripping the chain, as you walked closer to Sam and Dean just a foot away from where the Hessian disappeared.

“You guys okay?”

Dean was standing up, brushing dirt off his knees and his now very scarred gun. He nodded briefly, but couldn’t seem to find words. Sam shook his hands, ran them through his hair then shrugged, “I’m fine. You?”

You nodded then kicked at the heavy chain laying on the ground, “what is so special about this thing?”

Dean leaned over and picked it up. “It was Bobby’s. We used it before on a ghost—a buruburu, actually.”

He seemed preoccupied with his thoughts as he hauled it back to the trunk, so you turned to Sam for further explanation.

“It’s an iron chain etched with spell work. When he didn’t follow the plan, I had to think fast.” Sam shrugged, like it had been no big deal to make that leap. As much as you could admire the looks of them, sometimes, you were amazed by the brains alone inside these Winchesters.

“Yeah, well, I’m glad you did. Anyway, you’d better call Jack, let him know that Tarrytown’s Hessian is gone for good.” Sam nodded, taking his phone out as you walked over to Dean.

He had just finished putting away his gun and the chain, but when he heard you, he turned and pulled you into his arms. You felt the shudder of relief go through him and relaxed a bit yourself now that it was over.

It had been a close one.

You stood up on your tiptoes and found his mouth with yours, pressing a sweet slow kiss to his full lips. Just as it was starting to heat up, you leaned back and gave him your coyest smile.

“And as for you, Monsieur Cowboy,” you said in your best approximation of a French accent, “I believe we have some Halloween plans back at the bunker.”

Dean’s smile was predatory as he pulled you into another kiss, “oui, m’dame.”

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theonetheycallhannah · 5 years ago

Text

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 11: Discharge Plan

Characters: Captain Syverson x OFC (Shane Dawson)

Summary: The highs of Shane and Sy’s first weekend as a couple are followed up by some big news from Sy, leading to our couple’s first fight.

Don’t miss a session! Click here to catch up on this story or explore my other works!

Word Count: 2.7

Warnings: Language, mature themes, smut, sort of unprotected sex, rough-ish sex, angst, alcohol consumption,

Author’s Note: First off, I wanna talk about the word “victuals.” I’ve loved this word for a long time, even though it makes no sense, phonetically as it actually rhymes with the “fiddles” or “riddles.”(It’s true, look it up!) It’s very pastoral and somewhat archaic, so you don’t hear it too much anymore in current writing about the present, but I just felt like Sy would say it. Secondly, it was really hard for me to put my darlings through the argument in this chapter. I want them to have only happy times…but that provides no tension or motivation for story development…and I want to keep writing them more than I want them to be happy… I guess I finally understand why authors torture their characters! Lol! It might take a bit of time for me to sort out what their relationship looks like adding the distance factor, but I have some ideas that might work. Also, it might be an opportunity to do a bit more of Sy’s perspective, which I thoroughly enjoy, and may go back and fill in some blanks for him in between chapters I’ve already done. I hope you all enjoy this installment of the Treatment of Captain Syverson! Feedback in any form is always appreciated!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

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X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@

The rest of the weekend was spent in blissful relaxation. Sy went to his place to feed Aika and bring her over at Shane's insistence. The dog had been slightly standoffish with her, but Sy assured her that it was in her nature to be aloof, and that she needed to be engaged or instructed to behave more doglike.

"It's her training. She's still a soldier. It's hard for us to shake those habits. Like me calling you 'ma'am' at first."

"She's another die hard. I respect that." she chuckled, scratching Aika behind her perked ears, and eliciting pants of contentment from her.

Sy's skills with a spatula were unmatched. That was to say, he made the best pancakes she'd ever had. They almost didn't need syrup…almost. They ordered an obscene amount of Chinese takeout which lasted them about three meals each. Sunday evening, though, which had a gloom to it no matter the circumstances, required some comfort food. They agreed on pasta, so Shane made up some of her famous alfredo sauce and probably twice the recommended portion of pasta for two humans to consume. There were no leftovers. Sy had three helpings, himself. Three heaping bowls of it. Shane couldn't handle more than one and a half servings, even though she wanted to gorge herself. She knew too much would make her ill.

When they weren't eating, the were cuddling on the couch, or in Shane's bed. They watched more Parks and Rec, and a few other films and shows that Sy requested, just to break things up. Their bodies were constantly wrapped in each other, leading to frequent bouts of making out, fooling around, and sex in almost every room of the house.

Her favorite had been the shower. She insisted on getting cleaned up, but Sy had objections.

~~~~~~~~

"I'll be less than ten minutes, come on, I reek! You can't wanna kiss me when I smell like this!" she said, trying to shut the bathroom door on the human mack truck before her. Broad and formidable.

"You smell like sex, and…me, darlin. I've never wanted to kiss you more," he said, backing her up toward the shower doors. "but I guess if you must. Lemme help, though." he pulled open the glass door, forcing her into his captivating kiss, and maneuvering her backward into the walk-in, stone tile shower. He pulled off her tank top, capturing her breasts in his hands and mouth for a moment before kneeling to remove her shorts and kiss her thighs. He pulled himself away too quickly and started the water flowing.

"Sy, you're fully dressed!" he was barefoot, but otherwise, in jeans and her favorite of his tees. The letters DILLIGAF across a skull, black on red. She always laughed on the inside when she saw it. Because although Sy often had to put on a calloused and brusque act when he'd been an officer in the Army, he was terribly soft and sweet when the occasion called for it. The irony being that although he didn't look like he gave a fuck, he actually did.

"I've got more clothes in the truck and you've got a dryer." he maneuvered her under the pulsing stream of the showerhead. "Gotta get you wet." he let the water run through her hair as he reached for her shampoo, a coconutty concoction that reminded her of summer, squeezed a bit into his hand, and lathered it up. He worked the suds into her wet hair gently, raking his nails across her scalp in a way that excited and ignited every atom in her. She sighed at his touch which made him groan with need.

He tilted her head back to rinse the lather out and reached for the conditioner. He was a bit more generous with it than strictly necessary, but she didn't protest. He pulled her hair forward in two sections, one over each shoulder and worked the emollient into the strands. His hands slick from the product, he ran them over her breasts and her abdomen and hips…between her legs. There her own arousal was primed to combine with the tropical unction. She gasped as he worked his fingers over her, slow at first, but speeding up, only to slow again. When she finally whimpered in frustration, he undid his jeans, and backed her up to the stony grey wall, not giving a fuck, as his shirt had suggested, that he and his clothes were getting soaked. His only care now apparently, was to satisfy the simpering cries of "yes, please." from Shane.

His first few thrusts were slow and measured, knowing that she was still adjusting to his size. But it didn't take long for him to lose control. She wasn't sure what was making him like this, but she was not complaining in the least. The texture of his jeans on her bare, wet thighs was a sensation she wouldn't soon forget. She gripped at him, holding onto his shirt for dear life as her climax built to impossible heights.

She was loving the way he lost himself in the ferocity of the act. And his release led to hers immediately. She wrapped herself around him in blissful embrace, and whispered his name as a prayer.

"Sorry, darlin,' I meant to…"

"It's okay. I'm on the pill and I'm not at a particularly dangerous time in my cycle."

He kissed her tenderly and reached for her bath puff and some body wash. "Well, let’s get ya cleaned up."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The only good part about Monday was that she'd be treating him. Although, he was scheduled in the afternoon. Her morning would drag on eternal.

He greeted her with a typical "hey, susnshine" and she led him into the gym, feeling his gaze on her ass, wanting, even though they'd just left each other quite satisfied that morning. He was freshly showered, beard well groomed, and his hair growing back in very nicely. He'd asked her weeks ago whether he should keep the buzzed look or not, and she had been entirely for growing it out. She wanted something to run her hands through. She'd be fine if it was at least shoulder length, but she wouldn't push that on him.

They did their normal warm up on the bikes, followed by some plyometric drills, which made him scowl at her in a way that lit her up like a firecracker. But the fact that he was able to jump up onto the box was encouraging. He couldn't have done that a month ago. He was progressing so well and was so close to his long term goals and discharge. It almost made Shane sad. It wasn't as though they wouldn't see each other, but having him break up the insanity of her day three times a week for just an hour was invaluable.

As they were doing their usual end of the session stretch in her treatment room, and she noted the improved range of motion he was getting, he broke the amiable silence with a question.

"Hey, can I bring a pizza or somethin' over for dinner tonight after you get off?"

"Sure!" she could tell there was something he wanted to say, but was holding back. She prodded. "Everything okay? You've been a bit…off today."

"I'm good. Just a little distracted." he deflected by touching her hip, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. She swatted him away.

"Not here, Sy."

"But that makes it fun!" he pouted.

"No, that really could get me fired! Getting frisky on company time!"

"Mmmm, I'd love to frisk you right now." he reached between their legs to try and grab her again, but she thwarted him and pinned his wrists at his ears.

"Cool it, cowboy, or your last two sessions are gonna make you wish you'd never met me." she threatened.

"Ain't nothin', nothin' on God's good green earth could make me wish that, sunshine." His stunning blue eyes softened her resolve and she let go, continuing to stretch him.

"Still…cool it." she grinned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She'd just had time to change into some comfy clothes, wash her face, and put her hair up when her doorbell rang.

Sy stood smiling under the porch light, a modern white knight, carrying a large pizza from Pizza Hut and a six pack of Miller High Life.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes! And it's nice to see you too, Sy!" she laughed, teasing him.

"Should I leave the victuals and go?" he asked, mock concern on his sarcastic brow.

"Get in here, soldier."

She got out napkins and paper plates because as horrible as it sounded, she just couldn't think about doing dishes tonight. She was even glad Sy had brought drinks in disposable or recyclable containers, and not wine, which she tended to prefer. She was exhausted, but not upset, which made the silence they ate in bearable. Sy still seemed to have something on his mind, though.

"Did you have something you wanted to talk about tonight, Sy?"

"Kinda, yeah, uh…it's kind of a big thing for me, and I know this is new, what we have, but…well, I'll just tell ya."

"Go on." she encouraged, worried.

"I…I talked to my old CO about jobs in the private sector. He referred me to a company that…well it's sort of an employment agency for vets. Mostly security for private companies and individuals. I had a phone interview with them this past Tuesday. I just got a call this morning that they want to meet me in person to finalize everything. Mostly a formality. When I go for that, I'll also have to stay there a couple of weeks to a month for training."

"Where is this…gig?" She said, flat affect hiding the feelings brewing under her skin.

"The offices are in Charlottesville…Virginia. And there may be some cross country training there in Shenandoah National Park."

"Cross country…by that do you mean survival training?" She was still cool, but getting more livid.

"You could call it that, I guess. But it won't be a challenge for me. I'm more worried about the technical stuff." His bravado and flippancy about the whole endeavor was enraging her. The thought that he'd be in the wilderness alone, was only a fraction of the big picture. He was going away for a month? And he had known about the job for a week now. A week in which so much about their relationship had changed, and shifted. How could he think she'd just accept this without a bit of raging.

"You waited until after we slept together to tell me this. You did it on purpose, Sy." that was the biggest problem, she thought. The fact that he seemed to be hiding it from her. It brought back old trauma that she thought he'd never have subjected her to.

"Yes and no, Shane. I wasn't intentionally keeping anything from you, I just didn't wanna bring it up until somebody bit."

"You wanted to keep me in the dark about something you were excited about? How do you think that makes me feel?"

"I didn't wanna get your hopes up or mine. Honestly."

"Saying 'honestly' doesn't make it honest, Sy. I've told you about everything that Elliott put me through. The lies. The secrets. This puts a bad taste in my mouth. You have to see that. Can't you?"

"Oh, sunshine, I--"

"No, please. Do not do that right now. Don't call me sunshine when all I can see is the night."

"I'm so sorry. My intention was not to make you feel in any way like that asshole ever did. Please hear me when I say that. I want to be the opposite of him in your mind in every way, darlin.' Please believe that."

There was so much sincerity in his voice, now nearing tearfulness that she felt he must be telling her the truth. She nodded. But was still apprehensive about the nature of the job and the training.

"But…what if you get hurt again?"

"I won't. You've all but fixed me, Shane. I'm stronger than ever."

"Can't you just…find a safe job? Here?" She was being selfish. She couldn't help it. Even though she knew she might regret it.

"Sit at a desk, ya mean? Deliver pizzas?" he indicated the box between them on the table. "Call people and ask them if they're happy with their cable services, Shane? Is that all I'm good for now?" he was angry.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"No, of course not. You're a PT. That's what you were meant to do, right? Well, imagine if you couldn't do that no more. Something or another, an injury, perhaps, or just plain ol' shitty situation, left you in a position where you couldn't go back. Couldn't do your dream job. Couldn't fulfill your purpose." he spat. "Wouldn't you do anything you could to be some shadow of what you were meant to be?"

She couldn't speak. Because he was right in so many ways.

"Because right now, I'm nothin'. I'm not doin' anyone any good. I'm a drain on my country, the one I swore to protect with my very life. It's like I've broken an oath. And it's fractured my soul."

"I see that. I truly do. But I need you here. You do ME good, Sy. I'm already half dreading d/c'ing you. I don't wanna have to say a goodbye, too." it was her truth. But it hit him very much sideways.

"So…what is it, Shane? You only want me when I'm broken? You only want me so you can fix me?"

"No, of course not! That's not what--"

"Am I a charity case to ya now? Is that why ya finally gave in and let me in your bed?"

"Sy, no!" she was crying now. It had hurt so much to think that he could have gotten that from what she'd said.

"I think if you can have feelings hurt about this situation then so can I."

He stood to leave, but she caught him by the wrist.

"Shane…you know I would never, ever harm you. But please… don't test my limits. Let… go." She did.

She was still quite a bit faster than him, so she ran ahead and blocked the door.

"Move." he insisted. She didn't.

"Hear me out, and then I'll let you go."

He crossed his arms and nodded, his gaze still one of cold steel.

"Sy, I didn't mean to make this job that you're clearly excited for into a source of anguish or to make it about me. I'm thrilled that you're going to get to do something you want in another field. I really am. I just…being with you has made me realize how good life can really be. And even if you'd told me before we slept together, I would have said the same thing. It was selfish of me to haul my baggage into the conversation when you aren't, have never been, and could never be Elliot. His best couldn't compare with your worst. And I will do my best in the future to think about who you are before I complain about the work you find to do."

"It's like I said about Aika before. She's a soldier. Hard trained. And so am I. It took a lot of hard work for me to get where I am, so much that it fundamentally altered who I am as a person. Now, in my opinion, those changes were for the better. I was kind of a shit before I became a soldier, thought the sun rose and set with me. I got some perspective and met some good people…lost some, too. Saw some shit I can't unsee. Some of it haunts me to this day, and I figure it always will. But I reckon if I can keep fighting the fight somehow. Keep protecting people in whatever way I can, my training and experience won't be a total waste."

"I understand and respect that, Sy. And I will back you in any way I can. I'll water your plants, I'll keep Aika whenever you're gone, I'm here for you."

"Oh, shit! I wasn't even thinking about having to leave my dog behind! Maybe this WON'T work!" he chuckled.

"Second fiddle to another woman already. I knew you were gonna break my heart, Captain Logan Syverson."

"Never intentionally, sunshine." he hugged her, tight, and with his whole body. Their argument in the past and their future an exciting mystery. Shane had never felt so safe and loved.

Up Next: Chapter 12: Final Home Exercise Program

#netflix sand castle #sand castle #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson x ofc #sigh for sy #syverson smut #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x ofc

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hailsnow3 · 5 years ago

Text

Cryopen Cryotherapy details.

Zimmer Cryo 6 Cyro therapy System.

Content

After therapy.

Why choose Fat Freezing?

Mole center At Mallucci London.

Our center.

how Much Time Does The treatment Take?

It's Called persistent Fat For a Factor!

Hifu Vaginal tightening.

They can likewise be operatively gotten rid of, occasionally using neighborhood anaesthetic. Skin tags are constructed from loosened collagen fibres as well as capillary bordered by skin. Skin tags are small, soft, skin-coloured developments on your skin. They can differ in colour as well as dimension-- from a few millimetres up to 5cm vast.

How does fat leave the body?

Research shows that 84% of fat loss is exhaled as carbon dioxide. The remaining 16% of fat is excreted as water. During the conversion of energy, carbon dioxide, and water are byproducts of waste. They are excreted via urine, perspiration, and exhalation.

For inquiries or guidance regarding employment rights, speak to the Work Relations Agency. If you have a remark or question about benefits, you will certainly need to call the federal government department or company which handles that advantage. The nidirect personal privacy notification puts on any kind of information you send out on this feedback form. If you have a question about a government solution or plan, you should contact the relevant federal government organisation straight as we do not have access to information regarding you held by federal government departments. This comments form is for problems with the nidirect internet site only. Skin tags are harmless and don't usually create discomfort or pain.

Just enter your information listed below and also we'll ring you to supply a quote or answer your inquiries. We will use your individual information to refine your query and contact you with pertinent information. For additional details, please see our website privacy policy. They are composed of loosened collagen fibers and blood vessels, bordered by skin, and also they expand in a projectile pattern.

Does fat freezing work?

Cryolipolysis appears to be a safe and effective treatment for fat loss without the downtime of liposuction or surgery. But it is important to note that cryolipolysis is intended for fat loss, not weight loss.

Disabled or persistantly sick individuals can assert BARREL relief on purchases for personal or residential usage that are applicable to their impairment or sickness. Skin tags can conveniently be burnt or scorned in a comparable method to how growths are removed.

After therapy.

Can you eat after fat freezing?

The answer is 'nope'you cannot eat whatever you want after CoolSculpting. Fat-freezing helps reduce the persistent flab leftover after losing weight. It's not a replacement for diet and exercise.

While it is true apparently that the criminal offenses of wrong-doers were suggested on indications where they were held in the stocks or pillory, there is no proof that 'unlawful carnal knowledge' was penalized or defined this way. Clenched fist associates right here to the striking context, not the sexual interpretation, which is an entire different tale. Remarkably the funny and also story-telling use of bacronyms is an usual device for creating hoax word derivations. chav - repulsive anti-social individual, male or lady, typically young - this just recently preferred slang word has actually generated a mischievous and also totally retrospective' bacronym' - Council Housed As Well As Violent. This old use was not then necessarily insulting, unlike the contemporary meaning of chav, which most certainly is.

In the North-East of England the modern-day versions are charva and also charver, which adds no reliability to the Chatham misconception. Please send me any type of other concepts and regional analyses of the word chav.

If you do not authorization for us to refine your individual data for advertising tasks, we will certainly still be able to call you concerning your enquiry. Your specialist will certainly speak to you about the possible dangers and also issues of having this procedure and also how they relate to you.

Why select Fat Freezing?

youtube

When it does I would expect much confusion regarding its beginnings, but as I claim it has definitely nothing to do with food preparation. shouting mimi/mimi's/ meemies/meamies - An aliterative expression with comparable definitions to sibling terms such as heebie-jeebies and also yelling abdabs, which roll off the tongue equally well. The typical use of the expression seems to be American, with numerous referrals recommending initial usage of the 'meemies/mimis' part from as much back as the 1920s. An abyss significance has established ever since to explain a poor reaction to medicines, instead like the expression 'cold turkey'. A 'Screaming Meemie' was additionally United States military vernacular for the German 'nebel-werfer', a multi-barelled mortar.

They must additionally be increased over the skin on a stalk or stem like piece of skin. Aggravated or contaminated skin with indications of redness, itching or swelling. such as moles, birthmarks, dark-coloured, hairy or any type of unusual-looking skin problem.

Skin tags a little developments, usually located in the eyelids, neck, underarms, groin, under the busts as well as in the folds of the butts-- anywhere, in fact where the skin scrubs versus itself. Apex would love to provide you with marketing information about product or services used by Spire and by selected third-party companions.

youtube

Mole clinic At Mallucci London.

Please upload clear photo of the area for our clinical personnel to review. you can find more information on Lipo360.co.uk's double chin tightening Corby here. in for therapy by having your problem evaluated by our medical nurses absolutely free. I consent to Sentinel Healthcare gathering my details via this type. Skin tags are small flesh-coloured or brown developments that hang off the skin and also look a bit like warts. You might intend to take into consideration Surgical procedure to get them removed if they are undesirable and influence your self-worth, or if they grab on clothing or jewelry and hemorrhage.

Our clinic.

There is frequently no need to eliminate them unless they obtain bigger, infected or frequently traumatised or they transform. In some cases you bother with an altering mole, that resembles a tag.

how Much Time Does The therapy Take?

We likewise offer FREE testimonial appointments, if you would like to be examined in person. Skin tags are tiny, soft, skin-coloured growths that hang off the skin and also look a bit like blemishes. Complete your information to see one of our experts at a practical time for you. A dark scab will certainly develop, the size of a dot, do not select as well as permit to fall off on its own. No covering or clothing is needed complying with surgery, however we may offer you a place plaster just to cover the location for the first few hours adhering to surgical treatment. If you desire to check on a problem or mistake you have actually currently reported, get in touch with DfI Roads.

Elimination is a reasonably straightforward procedure that is normally done under neighborhood anaesthesia-- so you will not really feel any discomfort and also you'll be able to go residence the exact same day. You should be able to relocate them backward and forward with your finger.

How many inches can you lose with CoolSculpting?

Results vary for each patient. However, there is an average of 20-30% reduction in the treated area, which can significantly slim and contour your waist and abdominal region. Many patients lose several inches from their waistline after the completion of their recommended treatment plan.

Just how huge and visible this will be depends on the precise procedure. We will certainly additionally give you suggestions on how to minimize the look of your mark, such as gently massaging the site after your stitches have been eliminated. You won't require to take time off job and you ought to be able to go back to your normal tasks quickly. This is a routine day instance or outpatient treatment, so clients can leave as soon as they are ready to be discharged. Our patients are at the heart of what we do and we want you to be in control of your treatment. To us, that means you can select the specialist you want to see, and also when you want.

It is a fascinating sensation, which illustrates an important part of how languages evolve - especially the impact of international words - and the close inter-dependence between language and culture. The term lingua franca is itself an instance of the lingua franca result, since the expression lingua franca, currently taken in right into English is initially Italian, from Latin, indicating essentially 'language Frankish '. Frankish describes the Frankish realm which controlled much of landmass South-West Europe from the 3rd to the fifth centuries. Huge busy cities including diverse areas, specifically traveling as well as trade hubs, offer an abundant setting for the usage as well as development of lingua franca language. Appropriately, an indicator would be placed outside the bed-chamber, or perhaps hung like a 'do not disturb' notification from the door take care of, showing words 'Fornication Under Permission of the King'. Sadly however that this rather improbable beginning has no support whatsoever in any kind of trustworthy referral sources.

It's Called persistent Fat For a Reason!

I would certainly suggest the HIFU treatment for anyone who wants the very same outcomes as surgical procedure, without going under the knife.

botox alternative Bedford will respond to all your questions, clarify each treatment in a language that you can understand as well as provide in advance and straightforward advice on how you can best redefine your body!

the number one botox alternative Northampton 'll additionally be shown existing before and also after photos of clients similar to you to ensure that you'll get an actual feeling for how your body could be transformed.

At the end of your assessment, you'll be presented with your recommended treatment programme along with transparent pricing for you to take house to think about.

The enhancement in my skin was a gradual process over 2-3 months, monthly I can notice my skin getting firmer, tighter as well as smoother.

Some HIFU makers come component of a multi-platform tool, these have a tendency to be much less effective as they supply various modern technologies in one device (like a jack of all trades!).

Each clients' treatment strategy is personal and also customized, made to assist each individual lookandfeel much better.

A committed tool to this solitary HIFU technology is far more effective.

The pot refers to the pot which holds the stake cash in betting. The associated term 'skin video game' refers to any type of form of gambling which is likely to cheat the unwary as well as unaware. Evaluating by the little variety of examples (just three in the context of business/negotiating) located on Google at March 2008 of the expression 'skin in the pot', the expression has just very recently theatened to go mainstream.

Hifu Vaginal firm.

They are smooth and soft as well as, unlike protuberances, they are not contagious. They may bleed if they remain in a revealed location however they are painless, benign and also harmless in themselves.

0 notes

snarkyowl · 8 years ago

Text

Weakling

The Doctor, from one point to another.

Warning for some blood.

“I’m tired.” He whispers to himself, bent over and holding his knee and stomach in agony.

“I’m so tired.” On the verge of a breakdown, sick and worn down.

He’s breaking, and he’s doing it alone. Better to fade alone than fade with everyone and give them the worry that they’ll be next. He’s still solid, mostly, but he knows he doesn’t have very long until he’s gone.

The clinic doors open, and he wants to scream. Instead he straightens himself up, sweeps his hair out of his face and with the gnawing pain still in his stomach he heads off to greet his visitor. It’s quiet, but then he hears one his nurses let out a startled yelp.

He speeds up despite his body’s complaining, and he finds the Author. He knew the Author. A prick to say the least, but he’s bleeding and babbling and Doctor Iplier would never turn him away in that kind of state.

He announces gently that he’s going to touch the man, and Author nods his head while hoarsely narrating the entire situation and Doc feels bad for him. He sounds desperate and tired, eye sockets still spilling blood.

They’ve been ripped out, his eyes that is, and not cleanly either. The blood on Author’s hands tells Doc enough to know he’s done it to himself, but he doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t have the time to bother asking why, they need to get the bleeding slowed down.

Doc has long since learned that egos don’t work like humans, that’s for sure. Despite the fact his sockets won’t quit bleeding it seems that the blood now is more tear replacement than bloody wounds.

He’s careful as he places the gauze over the sockets, even more careful as he wraps bandages around Author’s head. He grimaces as the bandage roll nearly falls through his translucent hands, breathing out shakily.

“Better?” He asks, voice weaker than he intends.

Author, too wrapped up in his own world, simply nods absently.

“Do-” “The Host would prefer if the Doctor would refer to him as Host.” Author-Host says suddenly, and Iplier blinks.

“I uh- I mean alright then.” Doc murmurs, biting harshly onto his lip as his pain increases again.

This is a bit dramatic, he really needs to down some medicine or something to keep this down.

“What happened, Host?” He blurts, and curses himself for being so crude.

Host, to his credit, only seems to move his head as though he were rolling his eyes. Author did that around Doc a lot, good to see that much hasn’t changed then.

“The Host’s eyes were in the way, so he removed them.” Host says flatly, and Doc blinks.

In the way? “What the fuck does that mean?” He asks, and dammit he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“The Host was limited because of his eyes,” Host explains impatiently, “so he removed them to avoid being limited any longer.”

Okay then.

“I want you coming back regularly to make sure they don’t get-” “The Host believes such precautions will be unnecessary.”

Of course he does. “Well I don’t, so come back in two days or I’ll come find you.” Doc bites, and it’s harsh but he’s not sure how long he’ll be around to keep Host in good shape.

He wants to make sure things go smooth before he fades.

He wonders, for a moment, if Host is aware he’s fading. If he does know, he certainly isn’t concerned. That’s good, though. Means Doc doesn’t mean enough to worry about his loss. That’s good, even if it does sting.

Will anyone care that he’s gone?

Shaking his head he helps Host to his feet, though winces as the man shoves him off.

“The Host does not-” “You haven’t been blind long enough to just walk around, dammit. Can I at least get you a cane?” “... The Host will accept a cane.” He mutters, and now Doc rolls his eyes.

Too much like Dark. Self sufficient and cocky about it. Arrogance would be the death of these two, without a doubt. Being a weakling would be the end of him.

Doc grabs the cane tightly, praying it doesn’t go through him and cause a scene. The nurses have all already begun to notice that Doc isn’t… Doing well, and his head nurse had pointed out the state of his hands. He played it off as best he could, but he’d eventually reach a point where moving would be too painful.

Host takes the cane with a distasteful frown, but it’s not long before he’s headed for the exit. Doc sighs, wishing him well as he goes. Host just grumbles at him, and Doc snorts.

He may be blind and talking in the third person, but Host was still Author in many ways.

The Doctor collapses into the seat at his desk, slumping forward onto the furniture with a tired sigh. Counting down the days.

Host didn’t know he was fading, apparently, until the bandages wouldn’t stay in his hands.

“The Host would like to inquire why Doctor Iplier seems incapable of holding the bandage roll.” The ego, now in a trenchcoat with a gold streak in his hair, asks irritably.

“Well I’m so sorry this is an inconvenience to you, but I happen to fading and it’s hard to hold anything when you have ghost hands.” Doc snaps, and immediately wants to take it back. He did plan on mentioning the fact he was fading to the others, but not like he just had with Host. That wasn’t how that was supposed to go at all.

Host seems confused and after a moment of moving his hand around he grabs onto Iplier’s arm. Slowly, he runs a hands down the doctor’s arm until he reaches his hand. Host’s own hand goes right through.

“Why did the doctor never-” “I was going to say something eventually.” Doc mutters, finishing the bandaging carefully.

“The doctor-” “Should have spoken up earlier? Not like anyone gave two shits, still won’t, so what’s the point? Garnering pity? From who? You?” Doc feels he can be an ass because he’s dying, but he knows he’ll probably apologize later anyways.

“The Host did not-” “Don’t act like you care now, Host. We both know you think I’m weak, annoying, and disposable.” Doc huffs, putting everything away.

“The Host offers an apology.” “The Doctor accepts it.”

He’s not sure why he responds like that, but Host makes an amused sound in the back of his throat and gives a slight smile.

“The Doctor amuses the Host greatly. He never intended to upset the doctor so much. Host has been arrogant-” “I love hearing you rag yourself, but you should get going.”

“The doctor is correct, thank you.”

Host stands, resting a gentle hand on Iplier’s shoulder. Iplier gets the distinct feeling this is the kindest Host has ever been to him, and even if it is a pity thing he enjoys it. “The Host hopes to see Dr. Iplier again soon.” He murmurs, and Doc snorts sadly. “I hope the same.”

Wilford confronts him about being in something he’s recording, and the half faded ego agrees. The fact he’s almost a walking ghost by now doesn’t show up on the camera, and instead he looks… Healthy. Wilford keeps giving him looks, but at the same time he knows the pastel ego couldn’t care any less. That’s just Wilford.

When the recording for his parts is done, Doc is exhausted. He slumps onto his couch and sleeps until Wilford calls the next day. A meeting, apparently, and he needs to be there.

So he goes, mostly faded and all too tired for it all. He talks with the others, listens to them argue, defends Wilford’s idea.

Apparently the meeting was recorded, and then uploaded.

Doc feels better within hours of the video going out, and he decides to see what’s going on. What’s going on is the fans.

They’re talking about the others, about Host and Dark of course. About Wilford and Google. About Bim, Eg, Silver, and King.

And they’re talking about him.

Some say they love him, that they’re glad he’s back. Others admit to forgetting egos such as himself, but they’re glad he’s back.

The excitement makes his heart race, makes him feel… Loved.

The headcanons make him laugh. Some are ridiculous, some are surprisingly spot on. Others disturb or worry him, but in the end he finds he’s glad to just be remembered. He’s glad people care.

Sure, they forgot him, but that’s okay. Some didn’t, and he wishes he could thank them.

Instead, he speaks with Dark when the man approaches him at the clinic one day. He’s patching up split knuckles that bleed black that turns red once out of Dark’s aura. “There’s a building.” Dark states suddenly, and Doc looks at him curiously.

“There’s room for all of us, rooms keep appearing in fact.” “Oh?” “Indeed. I believe the one with your name on it is near Trimmer’s, should you find yourself interested.” “I’m interested.” Doc states, and is surprised when Dark chuckles at him.

“Very good. I’ll see you there then.” “I don’t have an-” “You’ll find it.” “How-” “You’ll find it.” Dark repeats, firm and confident, before he vanishes into the shadows.

Doc wants to be annoyed, but he doesn’t have it in him to be. He’s giddy.

He’s himself again, and now he’s going to be something more. With the fans continuing to create, with the headcanons and stories, he feels more powerful than ever before.

#blood mention #dr. iplier #darkiplier #the host #snarky writes

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thisdiscontentedwinter · 8 years ago

Note

Just curious and I don't know if you've ever answered this before- Is TW the first fandom you've ever written for, or have you written for other fandoms under different names? If you've never written for other fandoms is this the first you've been heavily into fandom for at all, or just the first you've ever been on the creating side for? And if so, what other fandoms have you ever been into?

I’ve often said that Teen Wolf is the only show that hit the sweet spot for me when it comes to fan fic: enough potential in the characters and storylines to hold my interest, and so many massive failures of storytelling in canon that it just makes me itch to fix it. So it’s true that it’s the first fandom I’ve written for, but it’s not the actual reason I got involved.

The reason I got involved (and I’m sure this wills surprise nobody who knows me) was spite, pure and simple. Back in December 2014 something happened in fandom that I’ll call the Goodreads Panic. It was basically where a shitload of fandom writers demanded Goodreads pull the listings of their fics. Now as someone who had a lot of friends who read and reviewed fanfic on Goodreads, it was upsetting to me to see them so upset. Because when a fic was removed from Goodreads (and just the listing, let’s be clear–despite the panic, I’ve never seen any proof that actual fics were uploaded there) it didn’t just remove the listing, it removed the reviews, and the pages and pages of discussions on those reviews.

My friends were upset. So I said “Fuck it, I’ll write them a Sterek.” And Balloon Animals are Awesome was born.

I wrote about it in 2014, which was before I had a tumblr account. It didn’t stop a shitload of people on tumblr from calling me entitled and wishing I was dead, of course. So, spitefully, I wrote even more fanfic.

And to this day nobody can tell me why it’s so terrible to have discussions of fanfic on Goodreads, but it’s okay to do it here or on some other platform. And funnily enough, the entire Goodreads Panic was started by a Sterek BNF who didn’t like that someone had pointed out on Goodreads that her published novel was P2P and had originally been fanfic and a lot of readers won’t buy P2P. The BNF immediately began convincing others to have their fics pulled from GR. More fool her. We just talk about her P2P books in a secret group now.

Anyway, here’s the post I wrote:

My (generally disorganised) thoughts on the current fanfiction shitfight on Goodreads

Anyone who knows me knows that I love my Sterek fanfic. For those who don’t know me but have somehow stumbled upon this post, Sterek is fanfiction based on the slash pairing of Stiles/Derek from the TV show

Teen Wolf.

I’m also quite fond of Steter, which is Stiles/Peter. And I’ve read a few Stisaacs I totally enjoyed, which is Stiles/Isaac. You guys have all spotted the common denominator right? Yeah, I just love Stiles. And who doesn’t?

But back to the shitfight.

Lately, a lot of enthusiastic readers have been adding Sterek fanfiction to the Goodreads database. This has upset some fanfiction writers. I don’t know how many, and I don’t know how representative they are of the fanfiction community.

Fair warning: I may be quite vague in this post, because I’m not going to name names, and I’m not going to link to Tumblr posts. Why? Because I’m writing this post to get my thoughts in order, not to call out anyone whose opinion may be different to my own. I welcome discussion or debate wherever you find this post, but I won’t be taking it to anyone else’s virtual doorstep.

What is Goodreads?

Initially, it seemed like some of the fanfic writers thought that their works were being uploaded to Goodreads. This is absolutely not the case. Goodreads is a catalogue, and any published work including work published online can be added by users. And, once it’s in the database, any user can review any work. That review is then shared on a timeline with the reviewer’s friends. It is also visible under the work’s main page. Users can like reviews, and comment on reviews, and reviews show up in our timelines. I found a lot of great Sterek fics because friends raved about them, and I’m not going to apologize for that.

One thing I will say about GR is that it’s not just meant for professionally published and edited works. It’s meant to be a database of, well, everything, from Shakespeare and Chaucer to web comics to fan fiction.

What was added to author profiles and book pages?

Here’s the part I’m not clear on. I understand that artwork was added as covers to fanfic that was either unattributed, or wasn’t intended for that fic. And that’s wrong, and shouldn’t have happened. A simple email to GR support or a request to a librarian would have sorted it out in minutes though.

There’s also been some talk of writers worrying about being outed, and stories of people who’ve lost jobs and custody of kids for writing “smut”. Erotica writer here, you’re preaching to the choir. But I don’t think that linking from a GR author page to an AO3 profile is suddenly going to bust the whole thing open. How could it? If any information other than that was added, then yes, that was wrong. But I’m not aware of any incidents where that happened, and I’m not sure how it

could

happen if the information wasn’t already available online anyway.

Fanfic is for fandom

You read Sterek? You recommend Sterek? You spend a lot of time at A03 leaving comments and kudos for Sterek? Surprised to find you’re not part of the fandom? So were many of us.

I’ve spoken to a lot of people in private groups who are absolutely gutted, because all the Tumblr posts going around about “fanfic is for the fandom only” make them feel like they’re not allowed to be part of the club when their only crime was to love something they read and want to share it with their friends.I can’t pretend to be an expert on the fandom culture, except to say that I’ve seen enough posts in the last few days from writers who have no problem with their works being added to the GR database to suspect that the writers acting as the gatekeepers of fandom have no mandate to do so. And, as one prolific fanfic writer put so eloquently:

Fandom is where fandom goes.

Well, here we are.

The culture clash

I understand that the fanfic community is very different than the one on GR, but most of the people reading and reviewing fanfic on GR are doing it because they love the fandom. It may be accepted practice on AO3 not to offer any criticism, constructive or otherwise, and I have some sympathy for writers who have checked out their works on GR and suddenly discovered they have star ratings.

But that’s how we do things here. That’s how we approach what we read. And as a writer, you can’t actually control how readers interact with your work. To those of us on GR, reviewing and recommending fics here is no different than doing it when we connect on Facebook or Tumblr or anywhere else online. GR is how I’ve found so many wonderful fics that I otherwise would never have read. And that is why they were added to GR – because people were so enthusiastic about them that they wanted to share them with their friends.

“Someone that reads gay fiction and goes to GR is not the same as someone from the TW fandom that reads gay sterek fic with mpreg on AO3”

That’s an actual quote from an actual Tumblr post. Google it if you want to find it. Like I said, I’m not linking. And I’ve only got one thing to say in relation to that statement anyway: Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit.

I read gay fiction. I read and write m/m fiction (not the same as gay fiction BTW. Ironically, m/m fiction has its origins in slash). And I also read gay Sterek fic with mpreg, A/B/O, and whatever other tropes you want to throw in there. I love them all.

And so do the hundreds (possibly more, I haven’t counted) of other GR members who are part of the various fanfiction groups. But you just go on worrying that we don’t understand the tropes you’re using because apparently fanfic is a different language that we can’t possibly, you know, pick up by reading it. Like you all did.

You do not own fanfiction.

In the past few days I’ve seen a few writers claiming their “intellectual property” is being shared without their permission. And here’s where I have a real issue. Yes, you wrote your fanfic, but you don’t own it. In the case of Sterek, MTV owns those characters.

Sidenote: I also saw a particularly hilarious disclaimer on A03 that stated:

“

I do not give permission to this work being read aloud and/or shared with the press, or anyone working on said production of Teen Wolf, including but not limited to cast, crew, writers, or producers. I also do not give permission share this work on third-party websites such as Goodreads, which I believe is a resource intended for published works outside of fandom.”

I read it aloud anyway. Like the fucking rebel I am. Again though, here’s the misunderstanding of what Goodreads is. Goodreads is for any published works, and yes, that includes works published online. And yes, that includes fanfic.

I absolutely believe that fanfiction only exists because studios and copyright holders

allow

it to exist. It’s an act of goodwill, and most copyright holders recognise the fact that fanfiction, in all its forms, is good for their bottom line. I know that I’ve dropped money on the

Teen Wolf

DVDs because of Sterek, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.

I also believe though, that once fanfic writers start calling fanfiction their “intellectual property”–something I’ve seen thrown around in a few places the last couple of days–it will cause copyright holders to sit up and pay attention.

P2P

If claiming ownership will cause copyright holders to sit up and take notice, it will be P2P that might just force them to take action. In my opinion, fanfiction writers who think they own their fanfic and who pull it to publish will be more damaging to the fanfic culture that anyone reviewing and sharing recs on any platform including GR will ever be.

Interestingly, one of the most vocal of the fanfic writers is a writer who is publishing a non-fanfic book soon. This book, which will retail for around $12 on Amazon, is a former Glee fanfic that has been pulled to publish. Except last time I checked it hadn’t actually been pulled, it was still on AO3. In short, she has an issue with people sharing fanfic recommendations on Goodreads, but no issue attempting to make money off something she built using someone else’s intellectual property. And it doesn’t matter if the thing is as far removed from the original as Fifty Shades was from Twilight. In my opinion, it’s ethically wrong.

Maybe a Find & Replace of all the names is actually legally enough to get the work considered transformative. Legally and ethically aren’t always the same thing and,

personally

, I hate P2P fanfic and refuse to purchase it.

But hold on, isn’t Goodreads removing fanfics?

Yes, yes it is. Despite their own guidelines, GR has been removing fics at the request of fanfic authors. They don’t have to, but they are. Which means that all of those lengthy reviews with hundred of comments and gifs and pics are also being removed. And people are upset about that.

On GR we make friends over the reviews were share and the books we love. Those reviews and those conversations are now being deleted. Some people have lost tens of reviews, if not more. That’s a lot of hours of work, and you know why they did it in the first place? Because they loved a story and wanted to share it.

Oh, and I write fanfic too.

Yeah, I do. Just started, but it’s going to be a thing for me. Because it’s fun, and I like to share it with people, both on AO3 and here. And I know a lot of writers who do the same. AO3 and GR aren’t oil and water. They aren’t matter and anti-matter. You don’t have to pick a side, really.

You’ll find me on AO3 as Discontented Winter.

Feel free to share, recommend, or rate my fics any way or anywhere you like.

#goodreads #fanfic #fandom policing

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bananaipindia · 6 years ago

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Genius Files Suit Against Google and Lyricfind, Spotify Faces Multiple Lawsuits,Photographer Sues Pinterest for IP Violations and more.

New Post has been published on https://www.bananaip.com/ip-news-center/genius-files-suit-against-google-and-lyricfind-spotify-faces-multiple-lawsuitsphotographer-sues-pinterest-for-ip-violations-and-more/

Genius Files Suit Against Google and Lyricfind, Spotify Faces Multiple Lawsuits,Photographer Sues Pinterest for IP Violations and more.

Music Website Genius Files Suit Against Google and Lyricfind; Jay-Z Files Copyright Infringement Suit Against Publisher; Spotify Faces Multiple Lawsuits for Infringement and Deceptive Trade Practices; Photographer Sues Pinterest for Intellectual Property Violations; Netflix Faces Copyright Infringement Suit in Light of Bikram: Yogi, Guru, Predator; Bajirao’s Descendent Files Suit Against Panipat; Legal Notice Sent to Censor Board and Filmmakers of Mardaani 2 and more.

Music Website Genius Faces Uphill Battle in Case Against Google and Lyricfind

Lyricfind and Google are being sued by popular music lyric website Genius for anti- competitive practices and breach of contract. The issue came to the forefront when Genius informed the Wall Street Journal that it had sufficient evidence to prove that lyrics were copied from their website. Genius had cleverly watermarked the lyrics by a certain pattern of apostrophes which showed up on Google’s information panel confirming the suspicions of the website. Restitution claimed was in the amount of 50 million dollars. Although the site has sufficient evidence, it faces an uphill battle as the website is not the true owner of the lyrics either.

The ownership still lies with the various music artists. While Google claims that the lyrics are obtained directly from the Artists and not from scraping other sites, Lyricfind does obtain lyrics from other sites on the web and thus brings to light the possibility that it may have unknowingly copied the lyrics from the site. The Music website can bring suits for Breach of Terms of Service for copying lyrics directly from the site without the permission of the site.

Jay-Z Files Copyright Infringement Suit Against Publisher

The rap and hip-hop mogul, Jay-Z, is bringing a case against the authors of the Book A-B to Jay-Z written by Jessica Chiha and published by her Company, the Little Homie. The billionaire businessman complained that the Book used his name, likeness and references to ’99 Problems’ in the Book and other Little Homie products to deliberately trade on reputation and goodwill of the celebrity to avail commercial advantage. Jay-Z’s lawyers had sent many cease and desist letters to the Company. It further goes on to allege that Company had made false and misleading representations that Jay-Z was affiliated to the book and approved the use of his name. The Little Homie seemed distraught but were going to fight the case expressing their dissatisfaction in having to be involved in a legal battle with a musician the adore and respect.

Spotify Faces Multiple Lawsuits for Infringement and Deceptive Trade Practices

In August, Eminem Publisher, Eight Mile Style filed the initial Multi-billion Dollar lawsuit against Spotify. The suit in question raised issues on the provisions of the Music Modernization Act which had retroactively absolved Spotify from previous non payment of royalties and copyright infringement. The provisions that denied the right of the plaintiffs to receive profits attributable to their music was contested to be an unconstitutional denial of due process and unconstitutional taking of vested property.

Now, another suit filed by PRO Music Rights and Sosa Entertainment alleges that Spotify has failed in making payments for over 550,000,000 music streams, which mainly stems from a contested removal of contest that began in May 2017. It was alleged that Spotify had removed the plaintiff’s content without warning, reason or any chance to redress the concerns for removing the plaintiff’s content. Spotify had allegedly failed to adhere to rules, policies and obligations to which Spotify holds itself out in Public.

Photographer Sues Pinterest for Intellectual Property Violations

Harold Davis, the photographer is alleging that the Digital Pin Board site in its functioning itself promotes copyright infringement, allowing users to pin images from all over the world onto their virtual pin-boards. This according to Davis is resulting in a wholesale and unauthorized copying of images. He further goes on to state that he had found ten of his photographs he had uploaded on Flickr, on Pinterest without his permission.

He further alleges that Pinterest attaches his pictures in emails sent to users without his prior permission. He further went on to question the protection that Pinterest received under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and its safe harbour provisions. This is not the first time that photographers have gone after Pinterest, as it faced a similar suit from Christopher Boffoli in the year 2014.

Netflix faces copyright infringement suit in light of Bikram: Yogi, Guru, Predator

Ghosh’s college, Kolkata, India is claiming that the footage and photographs used in the documentary is actually theirs and demand for its immediate removal. When the production team had initially reached out to Ida Jo, the Ambassador for Ghosh’s Yoga college, she relayed the information to the Ghosh’s Family who had stated their intention to not be a part of the production.

Furthermore, it was stated that Netflix needed explicit permission for the use of the Videos and photographs in question and have blatantly ignored this while infringing upon the Copyright of the family. The production team appropriated more than just photos and videos, which included narratives and research that they originally encountered in Kolkata for the basis of their historical depiction. There has been no attribution or acknowledgment to the Kolkata Yoga. When Metro.co.uk approached Netflix in regard to this matter they refused to comment on the same.

Bajirao’s Descendent Files Suit Against Panipat

Nawabzada Shadab Ali Bahadur, who happens to be the eighth-generation descendant of Peshwa Bajirao, has objected to a dialogue mouthed by Kriti in the trailer of the film. The translation states that whenever a Peshwa goes to battle he returns with a Mastani. The descendant felt that this was inappropriate and was disrespectful to the Peshwa, but also paints Sahiba Mastani in a bad light, as she was not a random woman but his wife. Shadab has apparently sent a legal notice to the filmmaker for the removal of the dialogue in question and is ready to move to the Courts for remedy of the same if he does not receive a response.

Legal Notice Sent to Censor Board and Filmmakers of Mardaani 2

The story of the film revolves around a fearless policewoman who seeks to catch a serial rapist and murderer. It is also alleged in the movie that this is based on true events, however, there was no known existence of such a character in the city of Kota. As it was felt to be maligning the city and its reputation at a time when it is booming with countless students coming for education, it felt that it would act as a detriment to this end. It was stated that if the name of the city was not removed, then the screenings would be blocked and the matter would be taken to the High Court to remedy the situation. It was feared that students would stop coming to study in Kota because of this movie which says its based on true events when in actuality no such killer existed in the city.

The Issue has mainly been raised by the Local Corporator of Kota, and legal notices have been sent to the Censor Board, Aditya Chopra, the producer, the Director, Gopi Puthran and the broadcasting ministry to remove the name of the city ‘Kota’ from the film.

Authored and compiled by Shashank Venkat

The Entertainment Law News Bulletin is brought to you jointly by the Entertainment Law and Consulting/Strategy Divisions of BananaIP Counsels, a Top IP Firm in India. If you have any questions, or need any clarifications, please write to [email protected] with the subject: Ent Law News.

Disclaimer: Please note that the news bulletin has been put together from different sources, primary and secondary, and BananaIP’s reporters may not have verified all the news published in the bulletin. You may write to [email protected] for corrections and take down.

#Copyright Infringement #Intellectual property law #Media and Entertainment

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charleynsuper · 7 years ago

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Logan Paul apologizes after posting video of apparent suicide

For more information about suicide prevention or to speak with someone confidentially, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (U.S.) or Samaritans (U.K.).

YouTuber Logan Paul issued a public apology late Monday after uploading a video of what appeared to be a dead body to his channel.

The 22-year-old viral star is currently vacationing in Japan and shared a video from a visit to Aokigahara, an 11.5-square mile forest on the slopes of Mt. Fuji better known as the “suicide forest.” The national park has been known for decades as a place people went to commit suicide because, according to the AP, “people can easily get lost there, and know they won’t be found for a long time.” Over 100 bodies are reportedly found in the forest each year.

Japan will never be the same 🇯🇵

A post shared by Logan Paul (@loganpaul) on Dec 29, 2017 at 8:56am PST

Paul seemed to understand why Aokigahara was “haunted” at the beginning of his now deleted, 15-minute clip, but was surprised when he encountered what appeared to be a dead man’s body during a hike with friends over the weekend.

Like a lot of Paul’s uploads, the video had started out upbeat and playful. He joked about Mt. Fuji not being where Fiji water comes from, he put on a Toy Story alien hat. Then, he and his entourage happened upon the corpse hanging from a nearby tree.

“Yo, are you alive?” Paul said. “Are you fucking with us?”

After the YouTuber realized he was most likely filming someone’s dead body, he turned the camera back on himself. “So, a lot of things are going through my mind. This is a first for me.” The video then showed the body from a few feet away. “His hands are purple. He did this this morning,” Paul said.

Paul turned the camera back to himself. “Oh no, I’m so sorry, Logang,” he said. (Logang is what Paul calls his community of over 15 million subscribers.) “This was supposed to be a fun vlog.”

“This is not clickbait. This is the most real vlog I’ve ever posted to this channel,” Paul said in an intro to the video. “I think this definitely marks a moment in YouTube history because I’m pretty sure this has never hopefully happened to anyone on YouTube ever. Now with that said: buckle the fuck up, because you’re never gonna see a video like this again!”

Paul continued on to remark that, “Suicide is not a joke,” and “Depression and mental illness are not a joke.” Other members of Paul’s entourage, like Andy Altig, posted their own versions of the visit to Aokigahara, with titles like “WE FOUND A DEAD BODY!!! **emotional**”. For a group of people that were possibly the first to discover the victim in the forest, gathering content seemed to come way before, say, alerting the authorities or considering how the victim’s loved ones might find out about the news.

Reactions to Paul’s video were swift and negative. His name trended on Twitter for hours, with the majority of people calling for him to remove the clip:

logan paul exploited a persons suicide and FILMED the body after knowing the person was actually dead. if you stan that, youre disgusting. logan paul is disgusting.

— ً (@GUCCIFlNN) January 2, 2018

I’m so so sorry if you subscribed to Logan Paul as escapism but were left facing that in your sub box today. In the UK you can call 116 123 and in the US it’s 1-800-273-8255 and you can talk to people who are there for you. Also: unsubscribe. 💜 you are loved.

— Zoe London (@zoelondondj) January 2, 2018

Dear @LoganPaul,

When my brother found my sister’s body, he screamed with horror & confusion & grief & tried to save her. That body was a person someone loved.

You do not walk into a suicide forest with a camera and claim mental health awareness.

— Anna Akana (@AnnaAkana) January 2, 2018

As somebody who lives in Japan, has Japanese family and has filmed a video in the suicide forest, the amount of disrespect Logan Paul showed in his video is honestly sickening. No amount of demonetizing or "like if you feel sad" can excuse what he did. Really disappointing 🙁

— Joey (@TheAn1meMan) January 2, 2018

Still more people called on YouTube to address the issue publicly. The clip reportedly racked up 6.3 million views in its first 24 hours:

Just remember this. Before all the extended community outrage against Logan Paul’s “we found a dead body” video, there was a seemingly uncontested 550-600,000 likes on it.

His core audience doesn’t give a fuuuuuuck. Unless youtube does something, this doesn’t hurt him.

— Philip DeFranco (@PhillyD) January 2, 2018

All eyes on you, @YouTube. What Logan Paul did was unacceptable and deserves decisive action. There is no place on YouTube for that kind of content.

— Meg Turney (@megturney) January 2, 2018

Late Monday evening, Paul pulled the video from his channel and tweeted a lengthy letter of apology.

“Where do I begin…” he wrote. “Let’s start with this — I’m sorry.”

Paul wrote that sharing the clip was a “mistake.” He was also quick to cite his popularity as one of the main causes of his misstep. “I didn’t do it for views,” Paul said in the second paragraph. “I get views.”

Dear Internet, pic.twitter.com/42OCDBhiWg

— Logan Paul (@LoganPaul) January 2, 2018

At its worst, the letter reads like Louis CK’s recent public apology: the proof is in the pudding.

Paul likens his content to a 15-minute TV show he puts out “EVERY SINGLE DAY,” and says the decision to upload the video was the result of getting “caught up in the moment without fully weighing the possible ramifications.”

In the future, Paul said he aims to take his “big reach” more seriously and consider his responsibility to his community before sharing videos.

For more information about suicide prevention or to speak with someone confidentially, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (U.S.) or Samaritans (U.K.).

Update 11:29am CT, Jan, 2: Paul posted a second apology this morning to Twitter.

“I want to apologize to the internet, I want to apologize to anyone who’s seen the video,” he said. “I want to apologize to anyone who has been affected or touched by mental illness … most importantly I want to apologize to the victim and his family.”