#its always bad enough to warrant anger and never bad enough to warrant a solution

[marril96]

Overprotected

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Rowena is tired of reader's controlling behavior and confronts her about it. Reader is forced to bare her soul at the cost of losing her.

Warning: Unhealthy relationship.

A/N: Written for @connorshero‘s 1.6K Writing Challenge. The prompt I chose is "I’ll never let anyone hurt you, you understand?”

Editor: @oswinthestrange

Rowena looked at you with murder in her eyes, and it was in that moment that you knew you'd crossed the line.

To be perfectly honest, you'd been expecting this for months. For over a year, even.

For almost two years.

That was when this madness had started.

In May 2017 in a hotel you hadn't wanted to be in, that Rowena had persuaded you to book a room in with promises of sex and her undivided attention.

Instead, she'd ended up horrifically dead and you'd had the misfortune of walking in on it.

You couldn't believe it had been so long; it felt like it was yesterday, the emotions still raw inside you, burning bright and hot as the fire that had taken her life for the second time.

The fire that had caused all this.

It had started small. Rowena would go out to the nearest shop, and you'd insist on going with her. Lucifer had still been roaming free at the time, and it wasn't safe for her to be out on her own. It may have been an excuse, but it was also the truth. So Rowena allowed it. You could tell she wasn't too happy with being accompanied to a place mere two blocks away, but she'd put on a happy face — the same happy face she'd been putting on for centuries, her wall to hide everything bad and horrible in her life behind — and acted as if it didn't bother her.

It was bothering her.

With time your concerns grew. You had a hard time being away from Rowena, even for a little while. If she'd step outside to the yard or leave the room, you'd find yourself missing her right away. If you happened to wake up in an empty bed, panic would shoot like fire through your veins, even as the thought that she was most likely either in the bathroom or living room, having woken up early, would finally, after a moment of sheer fear, settle on you. She wasn't there, and that terrified you to the core. What if she got hurt? What if Lucifer had found out she was alive?

The nightmares didn't help with the situation at all. Almost every night you would be woken by screams that senticy chills down your spine. Rowena would thrash and turn and shout, drenched in cold sweat from head to toe, her entire body shaking as if fevered. You could do nothing but look at her and beg her to wake up; waking her up on your own wasn't a safe option, as you'd learned the first time her shrieks had woken you and your attempts to shake her to reality resulted in a fist straight to the face.

Once awake, you would hold her, let her curl up against you like a child seeking comfort, and whisper sweet things as you slowly rocked her back to sleep. Short term solutions. Nothing you did — nothing you could do — was of any actual help in the long run. Things would be the same, if not worse, the next night, as if nothing had ever happened, as if you hadn't lost sleep and poured all your energy into helping her.

You couldn't help her, not really, and it was eating away at you like acid, one little bit at a time. And it hurt like a bitch. You'd never felt that kind of pain before, that kind of rage mixed with helplessness. You were there for her, but what good did it do? It didn't last. Nothing you did lasted for more than a few hours.

The situation was no different during the day. When she wasn't having nightmares, she'd have flashbacks. They'd hit her at random, sometimes triggered by sounds or words or movie scenes that reminded her of what she'd gone through, other times completely unprovoked. She'd go very still, her breathing would go shallow, and then she'd start panting and gasping for breath as if she couldn't breathe. Her fair face would pale even more, giving her the appearance of a ghost. Tears would spill from her eyes, and soon she'd be sobbing.

She always hid her face in her hands, ashamed of what she'd considered weakness, but you didn't mind. She'd gone through a terrible trauma; it was only natural that she was affected by it. You would never think less of her for it, would never judge her or demean her or take advantage of her in that vulnerable state.

You would never leave her.

That, as it turned out, had become the problem.

As if the trauma wasn't enough, soon you'd found out fate had decided that Rowena would die at the hands of Sam Winchester. Your first reaction to this was panic — the same reaction you'd had to everything else concerning her as of late. Only this was amplified, made your heart stop dead in its tracks as images of Rowena lying dead and Sam standing over her flooded your brain. Every time you closed your eyes, it was all you would see. Her body. Motionless. Cold. Dead. Sam standing by her, looking down at her with regret in his eyes, his face firm with resolution. He didn't want her dead, but it was necessary. Something had happened that had made it necessary.

Even still, your attempts to keep Rowena away from him — away from both Winchester brothers — were futile. When they called, she came like a good little puppy. Her attempt at redemption. You'd tried telling her, time and time again, that she owed them nothing, that the fact that she'd changed her ways was enough to warrant redemption, but she didn't listen. She wanted to help them. It was the right thing to do, she'd said. The noble thing.

Yeah, right.

So you went with her. If you couldn't keep her away, despite your best efforts, you could keep her safe. You could be there to make sure no accidents, no necessary evils happened. If you were with her, you told yourself, she would be okay. She would be safe.

And you wouldn't miss her.

Things escalated a couple weeks ago. Instead of following her around everywhere she went, you'd find excuses to keep her in the house. Keep her with you. You were more than aware that it was unhealthy. The constant worrying wore you out; you were tired all the time, always making sure you had your eye on Rowena. You loved to have an arm around her, hold her hand, tangle your finger with hers… Any kind of physical contact was welcome.

Any kind of physical contact was preferable to none.

If she was touching you, she wasn't away from you. She wasn't in danger. She was safe, and if anything were to happen (as unlikely as it was) you were right there to protect her. Take the bullet for her if need be. You were ready to do anything for her.

Rowena, though, didn't appear to be appreciative of it.

She'd been grumpy for months now. It seemed the more worried you got, the more irritated she was becoming. Couldn't she see how worried you were? Couldn't she see that you were trying to protect her? Everything you did was for her sake, for her wellbeing. Why couldn't she understand that?

Today, she'd finally had enough.

"No! I don't bloody think so!"

She was panting, mad beyond belief. Her face was as red as her hair, angry, furious. You expected her to start breathing fire any moment now.

"I've had enough of this madness!" she said. "It stops now. You hear me, Y/N? It stops now!"

"What?" you asked. Her words stung. She was royally pissed off, and it hurt. It hurt to see her looking at you like that, hurt to hear that tone directed at you.

"You know bloody well what!" she snapped.

All you did was tell her going to the mall wasn't the best idea, and she went livid.

Alright, you may have suggested it a tad more strongly. And it may have come across as more of an order than a suggestion.

Just a little bit. A teeny-tiny bit.

It was for her safety. Nothing else.

That was what you'd been telling yourself for over a year. What you kept telling yourself, no matter how fake it sounded.

It had started sounding fake a long time ago.

Her safety, you reminded yourself. You were doing this for her.

"If you wanna go to the mall so badly, we can go. Just let me get ready," you said, sighing in defeat. Some battles couldn't be fought. If she wanted to expose herself to danger, the least you could do was follow her into it.

"No! I don't think so!" Rowena raised a forefinger and pointed it at you, an accusation you pretended didn't hurt as much as it did. "We are not going anywhere! I am going!"

Your heart stopped. "I'm going with you."

"No, you're not!"

Was she serious?

"Rowena—"

"No!" She took a deep breath to compose herself, to get her thoughts in order. "I've put up with this behaviour for months. I've had enough." Her eyes found yours, and through the mask of anger you could see love shining in the brimming, held-back tears. She was mad, but more than that, she was hurt. You had hurt her. The realization shot a pang of pain through your heart. "I love you, Y/N, but I can't take this anymore."

All the words you'd been meaning to say vanished as if carried away by a flood. You stood there, speechless, trembling, staring at her like a hurt puppy. Why was she doing this? Why was she being so cruel? Couldn't she see you were just trying to protect her?

"What are you saying?" you asked, though deep down you knew the answer. You buried the knowledge further back to the depths of your mind. If you didn't know — if you refused to acknowledge it — you could pretend it was something petty, something meaningless, just another one of her silly tantrums.

It was everything but. Her expression said that much, and so much more. She was angry, she was fed up, and it was all because of you. You did this to her. You hurt her.

Rowena sighed. "You — you're suffocating me."

No, I'm not, you thought, even though her words rang true. You were suffocating her. Day and night, you were breathing down her neck, followed her every movement, treated her more like a toddler than a woman over three centuries your senior. It's for your own good, another thought came to counter it. All for her own good. All for her.

"No," you said with a shake of your head.

"Yes, you are," Rowena said, standing her ground. This had been building up for months now, and you would hear it, all of it. You would hear her out if she had to force the words to your ears. "I can't get a minute to myself. You're always there."

Because you loved her.

Because being away from her for even a few minutes made you miss her terribly.

Because you were were terrified, if you were to leave her alone, you would walk in on her charred remains, walk in on a blood-covered room with the smell of death lingering in the air. Like that day almost two years ago. The day you still couldn't forgive yourself for.

You shook your head, chasing away the unpleasant memories. Never again. It would never happen again.

"I don't mind a bit of attention," Rowena said (wasn't that an understatement, you thought), "but you are overdoing it."

"I like spending time with you," you said, begging the tears not to fall.

She scoffed. "This is more than 'spending time with me.' You're too bloody clingy!"

"No, I'm not," you whimpered. A tear fell, then another, and another, and soon your face was drenched in salty liquid.

"You are," Rowena said. "Goodness sake, I can't go to the loo without you waiting outside!"

Alright, so maybe you were a tad overprotective. That didn't make you clingy.

Right?

"I can't remember the last time I left this house," she continued, letting out a sigh. She was on a roll, too much pent up emotion from months of hidden, buried frustration. "Whenever I want to go somewhere, you come up with some excuse to stop me. Frankly, I only stayed to placate you. Every outing brought forth an argument, and I didn't want to deal with that. What would be the point? Even if I went, you'd come along. I wouldn't get any space either way."

You wished the earth would open up and swallow you whole. It would hurt less than hearing her say those things to you, hearing her rant about how clingy you were, how much your presence was annoying her. You loved this woman with all your heart, did everything in your power to protect her, and this was how she repaid you.

It hurt.

It fucking hurt!

"Stop it!" you said. Your hands shot up to your ears to cover them. You closed your eyes and started shaking your head frantically, as if doing so would make all of this disappear, would make you wake up and realize this was all just a bad dream. "Stop saying that! Just stop!"

"You can't keep doing this," Rowena said, a tad softer. Anger was still there, lingering in traces, barely noticeable to anyone who didn't know her. To anyone other than you. "It's not healthy, darling."

"I'm not doing anything wrong," you whispered. Even you didn't believe that. You had hurt her. Your actions had hurt her. It was wrong, and you knew it.

You'd known it for a while now.

You just pretended you didn't.

"You're treating me like a bloody prisoner!" Rowena exclaimed.

"I'm doing this for you!" You forced yourself to face her, forced yourself to look her dead in the eyes as you spoke. She needed to know. She needed to hear it, all of it. Maybe then she would understand.

Rowena scoffed in disbelief. You ignored it, focusing all your strength into willing the truth — your truth — out into the open.

"Everything I'm doing is for your wellbeing! Every fucking thing!"

"Yes, because imprisonment does marvels for one's wellbeing," she said dryly.

"I'm trying to protect you!" you exclaimed, having had enough of her attitude. Why did everything have to be difficult with her? Why couldn't she at least try to understand?

"Protect me from what?"

A sob, helpless and angry and so damn desperate, ripped from your throat. Two more followed it. You gasped for breath in attempts to swallow the other incoming ones, to no avail; they broke free with ease, and for a few moments you stood there, frozen in place, sobbing your heart out like an inconsolable child begging for its mother to help them.

You had no mother to turn to, no relative, no friend. Just the woman who stood in front of you — the love of your life, the one you'd been trying your hardest to keep alive — staring at you with eyes wide with fear that settled deep into her bones, swallowing her whole with each heart wrenching sound you made. She was worried out of her mind, at a loss of what to do, how to help. A part of her blamed herself for acting so dismissive. You could see it in her eyes, the glittering guilt swimming in the pool of green, joining defiance and anger.

"You're in danger," you said, finally finding your words. "Can't you see that? You could die!"

Rowena eyed you like a police officer trying to read a person of interest's face. Looking for lies, for deceit, for manipulation.

She found none.

"I can assure you, Y/N, I am in no danger," she said.

"You are," you insisted.

"I'm not," she said with a shake of her head. "And if I was, well, let's just say the other pal would realize quite fast he's made the worst mistake of his life." A little smile bloomed on her mouth, brimming with pride, with confidence you could only dream of having.

"You don't understand," you said. Why didn't she understand? Why didn't she try to understand?

"Understand what?" It was supposed to be a question, but it came off sharp enough to be an order.

"You could die anytime." The thought made you weep. "You could-you could get hurt and die, and… and I'm not risking it happening again."

Rowena opened her mouth to speak, to ask what you meant, when the realization hit and all words she'd been meaning to say dissipated in a cloud of anguish.

"Lucifer's dead," she said, his name bitter on her lips, as foul as a slur. "He's dead, Y/N. Remember?"

You shook your head. "This isn't about Lucifer anymore." It was way beyond him, at this point. "There's people who could hurt you."

"Darling, I've made many enemies, but believe me when I say none of them would dare cross paths with me."

"The British Men of Letters—"

"Are gone," she cut in.

Alright, fair point.

"Ketch is still here," you said. The man had had no qualms about torturing innocent witches in attempts to get to her a year ago. He was a trained, skilled killer, and a psychopath to boot. You wouldn't put anything past him.

Rowena scoffed. "I can deal with Arthur Ketch."

"He's already tortured you once!" The details of which she'd never wanted to share. You could only imagine what he'd done to her, and you did your best not to. It had to be pretty bad — and that was putting it lightly — if she didn't want to talk about it.

"And I got away," she reminded you. "And that was when he was under orders. Without The British Men of Letters pulling the strings, he's a useless puppet. A pup endlessly chasing his tail. I know how the man works, and trust me when I say he's not half what he used to be. If he was to try anything — which I doubt he would, seeing as the Winchesters pretty much tamed him — I can handle him and do my nails at the same time."

"He's a killing machine!" you argued.

Rowena shrugged. "Rusted, with his batteries out."

"Maybe so, but he's still dangerous."

"Not to me."

"He could still come after you."

"Let him try."

She looked you in the eyes, and you knew she was telling the truth. She could take him. She could wipe the floor with him, and hang his skull as a decoration. Even still, you were scared. What if he snuck up on her? What if he hit her from behind? What if he didn't play fair? His kind — hunter, professional killer — never did. Then what?

"You've no reason to worry," Rowena said.

On the contrary. You had a big reason to worry. A massive one.

The thought sent more tears down your face.

"What about Sam?" you inquired.

Rowena frowned. "What about him?"

"He's destined to kill you." A sob escaped you as you said it, loud and piercing. You didn't want her to die. You didn't want to lose her. You couldn't lose her. Not at this point in your life, when you were so happy, when the biggest threat to her life, to her safety, was gone for good. "Death said so!"

Understanding spilled over Rowena's face like a cold splash of water. Finally, she got it. She realized what had made you so scared. Lucifer and Ketch were threats of the past. Yes, you worried Lucifer might return (though you were aware the chances of that were slim to none), and yes, there was a slight (but not really likely, as Rowena had said) chance Ketch would go after her. But the biggest, most dangerous threat to her life, at this point in time, was Sam Winchester.

Sam Winchester, the man Rowena had bonded with over their shared trauma at the Devil's hands. The main she'd grown a fondness for, a relationship that was more friendship than mere acquaintanceship. The man who called for help every now and then, and she hopped on the nearest bus every time, in a rush to get to where he needed her.

The man who, despite his kind and friendly nature, scared you more than anything and anyone else in this world. He had the power the take away the one you loved the most. You couldn't trust him not to use it, even by accident.

You buried your head in your hands as more and more tears fell. Your head hurt, pounded like a hammer beating at your skull. Thud. Thud. Thud. It hurt, but not as much as your heart. The muscle raced at full speed, your chest vibrating with it. Thud. Thud. Thud. Rowena was your everything, your entire world. If you were to lose her, you might as well die.

You had to protect her.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you, you understand?" you said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, disturbed only by the sounds of your sobs. "Never again. Not even him."

You took a few deep breaths, swallowing back another sob that threatened to rip free.

"You can hate me for it. I don't care."

You did care, though. You cared a lot, and the thought of her hating you absolutely shattered your heart, but if it meant she would be safe, it was worth it. Anything was worth it, as long as she got to live.

"I left you alone in that hotel room," you said, and a little helpless whimper ripped from you at the memory. You would never forgive yourself for that day. She'd died in the worst way possible. For hours she'd laid there, scared and alone. And even when you'd finally returned, more torturous hours had passed until she'd regained the necessary senses to know you were there, to hear your voice, your frantic little whispers of hope and encouragement. Never again. "I'm not leaving you alone again."

For a few moments Rowena just stared at you. She stared and stared and stared, wordlessly, silently, as if you were an obscene exhibit she wasn't quite sure how to react to. You expected her to curse you out and berate you. She was a proud woman; tears were a weakness, and so was fear, so was mindless worry. Even after everything, after countless of your assurances that emotions weren't bad, she still hated herself when she was like that. Thought herself weak for feeling, for being hurt and scared.

What was to stop her from hating you all the same?

After all, you weren't just worried. You treated her like a child and had imprisoned her inside her own home. She had every right to proclaim you crazy, every right to call it quits and walk out the door right this instant, never to return again. She had every right to say she never wished to see your face again.

She had every right to hate you.

If you were her, you would hate you.

Instead, she walked over to you, opened her arms wide, and hugged you so tightly that, for a moment, you found yourself at a loss of breath.

You stilled, petrified, speechless, unsure how to react. Unsure what to say, what to do, what to even think. This wasn't what you expected — on the contrary, it was everything but.

The two of you stayed that way for a few minutes, her wrapped around your still form, neither one of you moving a muscle. Frozen in the moment like a couple of statues forever merged into one. Your breath was shallow, almost back under control, heartbeats slowly dying down to their natural rhythm. Just having her against you, her skin on yours, her warmth spilling into you, was enough to calm you down.

Then Rowena said, "It's okay, Y/N," and just like that the dam broke and everything you'd been holding back for months — for years — poured out like a rush of water bursting to the surface.

Your arms wrapped around her in a tight, unbreakable knot of limbs. You pulled her to you, held her against you as if your life depended on it, as if the world would shatter into pieces if you were to ever let go. New sobs came out, stronger than ever, overwhelming. Your knees felt weak, and you held onto Rowena tighter to keep yourself on your feet. She was your rock, your safe haven, your refuge from the storm of crippling fear that had taken over your life that horrible day almost two years earlier.

"I'm sorry," you whimpered through tears. "I'm so sorry, Rowena. I'm so sorry."

Sorry you'd mistreated her.

Sorry you'd hurt her.

Sorry you'd imprisoned her.

Words couldn't fix the damage you'd done. The past would stay the past; all you'd done, all the pressure and pain you'd inflicted on her, would still be there, eating at you like acid.

"I didn't mean…" you added, voice a whisper, a tiny mewl amidst the piercing sobs. You didn't mean to hurt her. You didn't mean to cause her pain. You just wanted to protect her. "I just-I'm sorry!"

"I know, love. I know," Rowena said. Her fingers gently tapped your back, a soothing, calming gesture. Her voice was sweet as candy, warm and tender and loving, so, so loving.

"I just wanted to keep you safe."

"I know you did."

She held you to her, let you weep your heart out, let you spill it all out. Then she pulled away and her hands cupped your cheeks with utmost care like you were porcelain, to be handled carefully lest you would break. You leaned into the touch and, for a short, sweet moment, closed your eyes, allowing yourself to bask in the softness of her skin. When you opened them again, her green ones were on you, shining like two brilliant emeralds, so full of warmth your heart felt like it would burst.

She loved you so much. She didn't have to say it for you to know it. She loved you like she'd never loved anyone before, purely, genuinely, with everything she had. She could get mad, she could scream and shout, but the love would still be there as strong as ever. Never faltering, not for a little bit.

She didn't hate you. You knew that now with utmost certainty, were willing to bet your life on it. Rowena was capable of a lot of things, both good and bad. She was a vengeful creature. She could hold a mean grudge, and could kill without blinking an eye for the smallest of reasons. Yet despite all that, one thing she was not capable of, and never would be, was hating you. You were safe in her hands, safer than you'd be anywhere else, with anyone else. She couldn't hate you, couldn't hurt you, couldn't do anything other than love you. She just couldn't.

She wouldn't.

"I understand why you did what you did, but you can't keep doing it. It's not healthy, love," Rowena said.

"I know," you said through trembling lips. "I'm just… scared. I don't wanna lose you."

"You won't." Her tone was firm, decisive, and you knew she was telling the truth. She would stay with you. She wouldn't leave. Never. "It's never going to happen."

"Death said—"

"Fuck Death! She's not the boss of us. Samuel and I said we'd change fate, and we will. I don't plan on going to Hell anytime soon."

She sounded so sure. So final. You had no choice but to believe her. There was too much conviction in her tone for her words to be a lie.

She would live.

She would stay.

You would keep her.

"What if someone else hurts you?" you asked.

"Let them try," Rowena said with so much confidence it was almost intimidating.

"I hate it when you get hurt, even a little."

"It's nothing I can't handle." She shot you a smile, warm and bright, and you couldn't help pulling on one of your own. Her smiles were infectious. "Don't worry, darling. It takes more than a few scrapes and bruises to bring me down."

"I suppose…"

"Everything will be fine. I promise."

You nodded. "Okay." If she said so, it would be so. "I'm sorry for… well, everything."

Rowena chuckled. "Let's put it behind us, shall we?"

"New beginning?"

"New beginning."

"Fine by me."

She kissed you, her lips soft on yours. Electricity shot through you as the kiss deepened, wild and unpredictable, as exciting as the very first time.

"One more thing," Rowena said as you parted, both gasping for breath.

"What?" you asked.

"What happened back then, with Lucifer — it wasn't your fault."

You swallowed. "I left you alone." You were busy reaming the mall, trying on shoes and clothes, while she was dying in horror all alone.

"I'm glad you weren't there," Rowena said.

"Maybe I could've helped you."

She shook her head. "A witch is no match for an archangel. What he did to me he would've done to you, too. Maybe even worse, to punish me."

Once again, she was right. But still…

"You were alone."

"I've been alone for centuries. Besides, it wasn't for long. I heard you when you came in. I heard your voice. It helped more than you'll ever know."

"It did?"

"Aye. Just having you there was enough to help me handle it."

Your heart swelled with warmth.

Rowena's smile widened. It hurt her to talk about it all, to remember that horrible day, but she wanted you to know how much your presence meant to her. How much you helped her without even doing anything. Just being there was enough. Being in her life was enough.

"So don't blame yourself, okay?" she said. "You'd done nothing wrong."

"Okay." It was hard not to, but you would do your best to try.

Rowena beamed. "My wee lass."

You had to grin. "My gorgeous girl. I love you so much."

"I love you, too, darling."

Your lips met in another kiss.

Here's to new beginnings!

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @dropsofpetrichor @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @1-800ahs @darkhumorsblog @wayward-kaia @angel7376 @rowenaisfabulous @ruthieconnells @evil-regal-vampiress 

#rowena #rowena macleod #rowena x reader #spn #supernatural #my fics #overprotected

[askpetethelibrarian]

Arrr! The Pirate Library

Yesterday, someone over at King Shot Press found himself in a little hot water over some tweets that were...not pro-piracy, I guess, but not AS anti-piracy as some people wanted. 

It turned into a whole thing. Because this is the internet, so one person’s opinion on piracy shatters too many worldviews or something. 

Frankly, it turned into a big mess. I wouldn’t want to get involved, until...

And when someone said “I honestly don’t see the difference with a library” I felt compelled to say a few things. And to ask myself: Why is checking out a book from the library different from piracy?

Before we get into it, however, I just want to say that the opinion of someone at King Shot isn’t something that induces anger in me. I think it’s an opinion that I agree with in some ways and disagree with in others, and I’m not looking to pile on here. After the library bit, I’ll share some of my opinion on piracy, in general. 

1. Scale

When piracy puts a book up online, an infinite number of people can download, possess, and read it simultaneously. 

When a library buys a print copy of a book, that’s obviously not true. That book can only go out a limited number of times (50 checkouts is usually too many for most books, physically). It can only be held by one person at a time. And, it can only be in any person’s possession for a limited period. 

When a library buys an ebook, similar rules will apply. Overdrive/Libby, the most popular library ebook service, does require us to buy licenses for every copy. Not every title, every copy. So, if we have two copies of something, we bought two. If we have one copy, only one person can have it out at a given time. 

Hoopla, another service, has a different model. We don’t buy individual licenses for individual items, and any number of people can have it at the same time. However, the time period is limited, and users are limited to a given number of titles per month. So, one can’t use library service to stockpile a bunch of books that they keep forever.

Piracy and borrowing might not look different from a user POV, but from a view that’s bigger than the individual, the difference is big enough to start having its own gravitational pull. 

2. Purchase

It certainly seems like I can check out something from the library for free, so what’s the difference between that and downloading it for free?

The library isn’t “free.” It’s a pre-paid service, meaning you’ve already paid for it, it’s just a matter of whether or not you make use of it. Much like a road, street lamp, or public park. You pay for those things, and then you choose whether or not to make good use of your money.

You’ve also paid for ebooks held by your library. Your tax money goes to the library, the library buys ebook services.

Now, in theory, SOMEONE paid for a copy of a book at some point before it was up for free online. So there’s a similarity here. However, let’s look more closely:

If a library buys a title and it’s very popular, they will buy more. Our system has a policy that says we’ll buy another copy of something for every 5 simultaneous requests placed. If 50 people requested The Martian when it came out, our guiding principle is that we should have at least 10 copies. 

There’s no such system in piracy. That one copy is all that’s ever purchased.

To cross over with the above argument about scale, let’s say that my library system bought 10 copies of The Martian. Consider that this is ONE library system serving a portion of one U.S. state. Even if we were overly generous, we could say we cover a quarter of the state. Multiply our purchase four times to cover Colorado, then multiply times 50 to cover the U.S., all of a sudden you’ve got 2,000 purchased copies of The Martian. This is very quick and dirty math, and it’s almost certainly a lowball. 

Also, you need to factor in that libraries will be replacing copies of books. So, in the 5 years or so since The Martian came out, the initial number has likely doubled. 

There’s another effect here. Once The Martian is a hit, you’d better believe libraries are all over Andy Weir’s next book, Artemis. Pre-orders play a big part in sales. Pre-orders count in the first week of a book’s sales, and large pre-orders help a book climb onto bestseller charts. 

You might not care about putting money in Andy Weir’s pocket, and I’m not here to argue about that (for THAT portion, see below). It does warrant talking about, however, in terms of the difference between pirating material and borrowing it from the library. The library is a positive factor in the economics of books. Piracy is not. 

3. Mutual Support

There is oftentimes an argument for piracy that’s about piracy being a positive force for folks who can’t afford books. Let me tell you why using your library is better. 

The library works like this: you support us, we support you. 

You come in, check out some stuff, and that gives us better stats to take to the local government and say, “See, this is important. The community needs this.”

When you pirate something, we lose out on those stats. We become less busy. The local government sees that the library needs less cash. And then, that economically destitute person who can’t afford books? Where do they go now? Piracy? Bad news, economically destitute people are far less likely to have a computer, an internet connection, and maybe even a place to plug a computer in if they DID have one. Oh, and they probably don’t have a fancy-ass e-reader either.

Piracy may be an option for some people who can’t afford books, but if you are concerned with the availability of books to all, the library is a better solution.

~

Let’s talk about some of my personal feelings on piracy, in general. 

We Hurt The Ones We Love

I spoke to a very well-known author. This author told me that they’ve had some contractual trouble with their publisher because this author’s books are VERY frequently pirated, which means that the books are popular, but the publisher won’t pay as much because they will have a hard time getting a return on their investment. 

Pirating material can have a ripple effect that makes it more difficult for the artists we love to put out more of the material we love. Some might see it as hurting a large, faceless company, but the truth is that we’re hobbling someone whose work we love. 

The Money Question

When talking about piracy, there’s always an element of class warfare going on. Why should someone pay the multi-millionaires like Metallica for an album they had to work 2 hours to afford? Why do I care if Harper Collins loses out on a few bucks?

I’m about to enter some uncomfortable territory because the stats are impossible to find. Because, frankly, piracy is something that many people wouldn’t admit to doing. It’s pretty difficult to get a good bead on this whole thing. I tried to find out whether or not piracy is a result of economics, and I could find no evidence supporting or denying that. What I will speak from is personal experience. Because that’s all I’ve got. 

Yes, there is probably some kid out there who is economically destitute and the only way he’s getting his hands on sweet books is through piracy. 

However, my personal experience tells me that a whole lotta piracy is committed by people who could afford the things they’re pirating and end up stockpiling things they never use. 

Let me put it like this: I don’t really have a problem with an individual sneaking into an art museum because they can’t afford to pay their way, and they really want to see the art. 

But I think it would be wrong, while sneaking into the art museum, to grab yourself something from the gift shop. Even something small you don’t need. 

My morality on this is somewhat flexible, and somewhat capitalistic. If you genuinely can’t afford books AND you’ve exhausted the options to come about them legitimately (libraries, friends, etc.) then I don’t think I’d have a problem. However, if you, like most people, justify the collection and hoarding of electronic files that you could afford to come by legitimately, you’re in a bad moral spot. 

Short version: If you are that person who can justify piracy because you pirate only that which you actually view, and you wouldn’t be able to experience art otherwise, you get a pass. But if you’re the person justifying it because someone else is probably too broke to buy books, therefore it’s okay for YOU to pirate, I respectfully disagree.

The Value of Art

Some piracy is justified through saying that pirated things don’t necessarily equate to income loss because they wouldn’t have been purchased anyway. In other words, maybe I would pirate a movie I would never actually pay to see. 

*Ahem*

Sure, like Speed Racer. Maybe I wouldn’t pay a single dollar to see it, but I would watch it for free. This means that the makers of the movie don’t really lose anything. Maybe I wouldn’t PAY for a new Metallica album, but I would listen for free. 

For books, I don’t know that this is nearly as applicable. Who is going to put in the effort to read a book that they wouldn’t pay the paperback price on? It’s not a passive medium the way movies and music are. The book isn’t just going to happen in front of you. You actually have to do some shit to get the information inside your head. 

The real issue on this point is that of de-valuing of art. 

Writing a book is hard work. Damn hard work. I think writers deserve to be paid for their work. 

There’s a long-standing tradition of de-valuing artistic work as work. Because artists aren’t out there busting concrete. 

But I’m here to tell you, art is work. It’s not a blast to sit down and type out a couple hundred thousand words, edit them, re-edit them, send them out for publication. No part of this is more fun than watching Speed Racer. 

The writers you want to read, while you’re enjoying a book, binge-watching something, doing whatever you like to do, they are working, many of them doing so in addition to their regular day jobs. Many of them in addition to being parents, partners, and doing all the same bullshit we all do every day. 

I also feel, in this time of plenty, that there’s really no need to watch movies you hate, listen to albums you don’t like, and read books that’re no good. If it’s not worth the cost of admission, it’s not worth your time either. Just leave it be and move onto something else you’d pay for.

[ellanainthetardis]

prompt: could you do a fic where haymitch really upsets Effie ( Like embarrasses her or something ) and he has to do something really cute or sweet to make her forgive him because sex simply wont do

Here it is [X]

Actions & Words

The problem with him was that he tended to saythings he didn’t really mean when he was angry. Or things that he had meantonce upon a time but hadn’t in a very long time – which was how he had ended upsitting on the back porch, staring at the geese wandering around his backyard,a bottle of liquor clutched in his hand. He hadn’t drunk a single drop yet.

The argument wasn’t sitting well with him.

He had been in a bad mood that morning, sleepdeprived and still shaky from his latest nightmare. He had only managed to fallasleep around five a.m. and hadn’t taken too well to being waken up by herviolin despite the fact it had already been mid-morning. She didn’t play often,any dexterity she might had had once upon a time had been destroyed by themonths she had spent in a cell and she didn’t like hearing herself playanymore. The violin had belonged to her grandfather – as far as he could tell,the only member of her family who had had a positive influence on her – and sheonly took it out of its case on bad days, when she wanted to fight back the oddmelancholia.

She was struggling. She had been strugglingever since she had showed up in Twelve five months earlier, claiming she wassimply visiting.

He had been vicious when he had stompeddownstairs to tell her to stop her racket, he had been mean and he had beennasty and, now that he felt a bit more awake and calm, he felt guilty becauseshe had done nothing to warrant the rage he had shown.

She had been tiptoeing around him for most ofthose five months, careful to never impose, hiding from the rest of the worldand, probably, from her own demons… He had been nervous about expectations atfirst. He had opened her door to her without hesitation or reserve but actuallyaccepting to let her in his life? It hadbeen scary. She hadn’t moved into his room though, she had stuck to the guest room,had stuck to their strange status quo of friends who occasionally slipped andslept together…  

She had felt so fragile, the first time… Shehad been trembling under his hands, more nervous and insecure than he had everseen her… It had made him feel… It had made him feel humble. Humble that she would trust him with her body when it hadbeen abused so badly…

Nobody should ever trust him with anything.

He pushed the bottle away with annoyance,startling one of the goose that honked in rebuke. What had he cared about that fucking violin? The words had poured outof his mouth: how he was sick of her always making noises, how he was tired ofhaving her underfoot, how he hated the way she always cleaned the house likeshe had any right to tell him how to live, how he just wanted her out of hissight…

She had stood there, violin dangling from herfingers, and she had taken the verbal downpour without a word or a flinch. Ithad made him feel uneasy. He had wanted her to fight back like always, he hadwanted to goad her into hurting him because then they would have been even.

But she hadn’t.

She had just stood there and taken it until shehad calmly but politely asked him to excuse her. She had run upstairs and ithad been his turn to stand in the living-room like an idiot.

Until he had eventually wandered to the backporch with a bottle.

There was a crashing noise inside the house andhe bolted to his feet without a second thought, scared she had fallen or hurtherself.

“Effie?” he called from the kitchen but therewas no answer.

He climbed the stairs two steps at a time andrushed to her bedroom. His racing heart calmed down when he spotted her, uprightand apparently unhurt, although barefoot in the middle of a mess of brokenglass.

It didn’t take a genius to understand what hadhappened. Her suitcase was open on the bed with a few folded clothes alreadyinside, her vanity was propped next to it, and her dresser was free of thebottles of perfume, pots of creams and whatever stuff she kept there. Hercheeks were wet with tears but also flushed with anger and he figured she hadswept the whole thing off with her arm.

“Don’t move.” he told her, trying to find asolution.

There were shards of glass everywhere and hewas barefoot too, having never taken the time to pull off his sweatpants toslip on proper clothes. He didn’t trust her to stay put and not hurt herself longenough for him to fetch his slippers though, so he decided if one of them was goingto get hurt, it would be him. He carefully took a step forward, trying to avoidthe mess, but she took a step back.

“Do nottouch me.” she snapped.

He lifted both hands in a peaceful gesture.“You’re gonna cut yourself.”

“I will be fine.”she hissed.

“You won’t be fine if I need to get you to theclinic, yeah?” he retorted. “’Cause we all know how well you’ve been dealingwith hospitals lately.”

“I doapologize for being such a burden to you, Haymitch.” she shot back. “Do notfret. You will get rid of me soon enough.”

“Don’t be stupid.” he scoffed, backing awaytoward the door. “And don’t fuckingmove.”

It didn’t take him long to fetch his slippersfrom his room and come back. She hadn’tmoved but she wasn’t pleased about it. Her arms were folded across her chest asif she was half-sulking and half-hugging herself. She didn’t look angryanymore. Just… upset.

She tensed when he wrapped his arms around herand she didn’t make much of an effort to help, so he just scooped her up andplaced her down at a safe distance from the broken mess. She immediatelydisappeared in her bathroom where she started emptying the cabinet over thesink. He closed it before she could take too much out, plastering his chest toher back.

“Stop.” he requested in a grumble.

“Do not…”she started.

“I’m sorry.” he mumbled pitifully, cutting heroff.

There was a long silence.

He never apologized. Or almost never, in any case.

“I didn’t mean any of it, sweetheart…” hewinced. “It just… It was a bad night, yeah? And…”

“You were right.”she interrupted him in a whisper, not meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Iimposed. I came here without being invited and I abused your hospitality.”

“I don’t mind having you here.” he frowned,sneaking an arm around her waist. “Come on, Effie… You know, I don’t.” He pressed a kiss against her neck, spreading herhand on her stomach. “I’ll make it up to you.” She dropped her head on hisshoulder, giving him free access to her throat but she wasn’t really responsiveto his kisses or to his touch. He frowned, irritated with himself for beingsuch an idiot. She was upset. Reallyupset. Upset enough that she wasn’t being dramatic about it – which told himjust how serious it was. “You’re not leaving.” he muttered against her skin.

“Perhaps I should.” she countered. “Perhaps…”

“No.” he growled, turning her around so herback was to the sink and he could look at her in the eyes. “You’re not leaving. You’re staying. End ofthat fucking discussion.”

Shelicked her lips and dropped her eyes. “I know you feel guilty about what yousaid but you have been a good friend to me. The best friend one could ask for, really, and…”

“I’m a fuckingasshole.” he interrupted her. “You knew that already. What’s new? I don’t want you to go.”  

She breathed out a long sigh. “Haymitch…”

“Move in with me.” Again, the words tumbled outwithout his consent. Those, though, he didn’t quite regret.

“I believe I already did.” she snorted. “And inthe rudest fashion, with that.”

“No.” he scowled, awkwardly shuffling on hisfeet. He gently grabbed her chin and nudged it up so she would look at him.“Move in with me. In my room. Like… We aren’t friends, sweetheart. We’ve never been friends. Let’s stoppretending, let’s do it for real.”

She stared at him, uncertainty and hopebattling on her face. “Are you simply saying this because you are worried youhurt my feelings?”

“I’m saying this ‘cause I want it.” he mumbled,his face burning crimson. “You. Us.”He leaned in and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “I really fucking want it.”

“Language.” she chided him mechanically. “Youdo not ask a lady to move in withthat sort of language.”

He ignored that. “Come on, Effie… I…”

“Yes.” she said. “If you are certain it is whatyou want, then… Yes.”

Instead of answering, he kissed her.

He had always been more at ease with actionsthan words anyway.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #post mj #book!verse #ansgt #hurt comfort #post prison effie #no wig no make up #dark side of h #h doing the rescue #haymitch with feelings #not established #fighting hayffie #nightmares