#i do find the ‘but where is the ao3 money going !!’ Argument hilarious though because it’s publicly available you can find it in like 5 mins

[hailtheferine]

I hate ao3 donation season because I get to see the most annoying discourse on my dash for like 2 months

[olderthannetfic]

I'm a Chinese, nationally and racially. Racial projection seems to be a common practice in western fandom, doesn't it? I find it a bit... weird to witness the drama ignited upon shipping individuals with different races, or the tendency to separate characters into different "colors" even though the world setting doesn't divide races like that. Such practice isn't a thing here. Mind explaining a bit on this phenomenon?

--

Sure, I can try. But of course, fish aren’t very good at explaining the water they swim in.

Americans aren’t good at detecting our own Americanness, and a lot of what you’re seeing is very much culturally American rather than Western in general. (In much of Europe, “race” is a concept used by racists, or so I’m told, unlike in the US where it’s seen more neutrally.) Majority group members (i.e. me, a white girl) aren’t usually the savviest about minority issues, but I’ll give it a shot.

The big picture is that most US race stuff boils down to our attempts to justify and maintain slavery and that dynamic being applied, awkwardly, to everyone else too, even years after we abolished slavery.

There’s a concept called the “one drop rule” where a person is “black” if they have even one drop of black blood.

We used to outlaw “interracial” marriage until quite recently. (That meant marriage between black people and white people with Asians and Hispanic people and others wedged in awkwardly.) Here’s the Wikipedia article on this, which contains the following map showing when we legalized interracial marriage. The red states are 1967.

That’s within living memory for a ton of people! Yellow is 1948 to 1967. This is just not very long ago at all. (Hell, we only fully banned slavery in 1865, which is also just not that long ago when it comes to human culture.)

Why did we have this bananas-crazy set of laws and this idiotic notion that one remote ancestor defines who you are? It boils down to slavery requiring a constant reaffirming that black people are all the same (and subhuman) while white people are all this completely separate category. The minute you start intermarrying, all of that breaks down. This was particularly important in our history because our system of slavery involved the kids of slaves being slaves and nobody really buying their way out. Globally, historically, there are other systems of slavery where there was more mobility or where enslaved people were debtors with a similar background to owners, and thus the people in power were less threatened by ambiguity in identity.

Post-slavery, this shit hung around because it was in the interests of the people in power to maintain a similar status quo where black people are fundamentally Other.

A lot of our obsession with who counts as what is simply a legacy of our racist past that produced our racist present.

--

The other big factor in American concepts of identity is that we see ourselves as a nation of immigrants (ignoring our indigenous peoples, as usual). A lot of people’s families arrived here relatively recently, and we often don’t have good records of exactly where they were from, even aside from enslaved people who obviously wouldn’t have those records. Plenty of people still identify with a general nationality (”Italian-American” and such), but the nuance the family might once have had (specific region of Italy, specific hometown) is often lost. Yeah, I know every place has immigrants, and lots of people don’t have good records, but the US is one of those countries where families have on average moved around a lot more and a lot more recently than some, and it affects our concepts of identity. I think some of the willingness to buy into the idea of “races” rather than “ethnicities” has to do with this flattening of identity.

New immigrant groups were often seen as Other and lesser, but over time, the ones who could manage it got added to our concept of “whiteness”, which gave them access to those same social and economic privileges.

Skin color is a big part of this. In a system that is founded on there being two categories, white owners and black slaves, skin color is obviously going to be about that rather than being more of a class marker like it is in a lot of the world.

But it’s not all about skin color since we have plenty of Europeans with somewhat darker skin who are seen as generically white here, while very pale Asians are not. I’m not super familiar with all of the history of anti-Asian racism in the US, but I think this persistent Otherness probably boils down to Western powers trying to justify colonial activities in Asia plus a bunch of religious bullshit about predominantly Christian nations vs. ones that are predominantly Buddhist or some other religion.

In fact, a lot of racist archetypes in English can be traced back to England’s earliest colonial efforts in Ireland. Justifying colonizing Those People because they’re subhuman and/or ignorant and in need of paternalistic rulers or religious conversion is at the bottom of a lot of racist notions. Ironic that we now see Irish people as clearly “white”.

--

There are a lot of racist porn tropes and racist cultural baggage here around the idea of black people being animalistic. Racist white people think black men want to rape/steal white women from white men. Black women get seen as hypersexual and aggressive. If this sounds like white people projecting in order to justify murder and rape... well, it is.

Similar tropes get applied to a lot of groups, often including Hispanic and Middle Eastern people, though East Asians come in more for creepy fantasies about endlessly submissive and promiscuous women. This nonsense already existed, but it was certainly not helped by WWII servicemen from here and their experiences in Asia. Again, it’s a projection to justify shitty behavior as what the party with less power was “asking for”.

In porn and even romance novels, this tends to turn up as a white character the audience is supposed to identify with paired with an exotic, mysterious Other or an animalistic sexy rapist Other.

A lot of fandoms are based on US media, so all of our racist bullshit does apply to the casting and writing of those, whether or not the fic is by Americans or replicating our racist porn tropes.

(Obviously, things get pretty hilarious and infuriating once Americans get into c-dramas and try to apply the exact same ideas unchanged to mainstream media about the majority group made by a huge and powerful country.)

--

Politically, within the US, white people have had most of the power most of the time. We also make up a big chunk of the population. (This is starting to change in some areas, which has assholes scared shitless.) This means that other groups tend to band together to accomplish shared political goals. They’re minorities here, so they get lumped together.

A lot of Americans become used to seeing the world in terms of “white people” who are powerful oppressors and “people of color” who are oppressed minorities. They’re trying to be progressive and help people with less power, and that’s good, but it obviously becomes awkward when it’s over-applied to looking at, say, China.

--

Now... fandom...

I find that fandom, in general, has a bad habit of holding things to double standards: queer things must be Good Representation™ even when they’re not being produced for that purpose. Same for ethnic minorities or any other minority. US-influenced parts of fandom (which includes a lot of English-speaking fandom) tend to not be very good at accepting that things are just fantasy. This has gotten worse in recent years.

As fandom has gotten more mainstream here, general media criticism about better representation (both in terms of number of characters and in terms of how they’re portrayed) has turned into fanfic criticism (not enough fics about ship X, too many about ship Y, problematic tropes that should not be applied to ship X, etc.). I find this extremely misguided considering the smaller reach of fandom but, more importantly, the lack of barriers to entry. If you think my AO3 fic sucks, you can make an account and post other fic that will be just as findable. You don’t need money or industry connections or to pass any particular hurdle to get your work out there too.

People also (understandably) tend to be hypersensitive to anything that looks like a racist porn trope. My feeling is that many of these are general porn tropes and people are reaching. There are specific tropes where black guys are given a huge dick as part of showing that they’re animalistic and hypersexual, but big dicks are really common in porn in general. The latter doesn’t automatically mean you’re doing the former unless there are other elements present. A/B/O or dubcon doesn’t mean it’s this racist trope either, not unless certain cliched elements are present. OTOH, it’s not hard for a/b/o tropes to feel close to “animalistic guy is rapey”, so I can see why it often bothers people.

A huge, huge, huge proportion of wank is “all rape fantasies are bad” crap too, which muddies the waters. I think a lot of people use “it’s racist” as an easy way to force others to agree with their incorrect claims that dubcon, noncon, a/b/o, etc. are fundamentally bad. Many fans, especially white fans, feel like they don’t know enough to refute claims of racism, so they cave to such arguments even when they’re transparently disingenuous.

--

Not everyone here thinks this way. I know plenty of people offline, particularly a lot of nonwhite people, who think fandom discourse is idiotic and that the people “protecting” people or characters of color are far more racist than the people writing “bad” fic or shipping the wrong thing.

But in general, I’d say that the stuff above is why a lot of us see the world as white people in power vs. everyone else as oppressed victims, interracial relationships as fraught, and porn about them as suspect. Basically, it’s people trying to be more progressive and aware but sometimes causing more harm than good when those attempts go awry.

[marshmallowprotection]

Cereus

Pairing: Choi Saeran/Reader

Description: You never knew what you wanted to do with your life from day one. It just seemed like there were too many things to pick from and all you knew was that you didn’t want to be bound by the expectations of your parents. So, you decide to head west like the rest of those that are seeking new lives and changes without knowing what to expect or your plan. You just never thought that you would find yourself ensnared in the rope of fate on your journey to find yourself.

Word Count: 2235

Cowboy Saeran x Reader

[Read On AO3]

Previous Chapter

Epilogue 

“Was now really the best time for you to pick up the guitar again?”

“What? Did ya’ want me to change the song to somethin’ more fittin’?”

“How about we travel in silence, instead?”

“That ain’t as fun, Saeran. Ya’ gotta live a little… c’mon, get that sour look off your face! Here, I wrote this one for you!”

“...Great.”

The sounds of a finely tuned guitar were all too prevalent in your eardrums these days. Saeyoung was far too content as the little wagon continued to go along the path, playing along to a song that he had been learning recently since he had so much more free time on his hands lately to explore his hobbies outside of conning and trickery.

While you didn't mind the sound, Saeran wasn't as big a fan of the humming and strumming. It led to a bit of bickering between the twins that was a surprise. The lighthearted argument wasn't unwelcomed. It was nice to see how the two of them interacted when they wanted to show that brotherly bond.

This wasn’t where you thought that you would find yourself but you weren’t going to complain about it in the slightest. 

You just leaned your head against Saeran’s shoulder as he commanded the reigns for both of their horses. He sighed at his brother’s antics and just continued as he was. It had only been a few weeks since everything happened and it was still an adjustment period.

After Saejoong was forcibly removed from power, the sheriff and everyone else that had been working with them were taken down and removed from power. They didn’t need to have a trial for them since it had been proved in front of them with the wave of a hand. They were going to be locked away where they would be unable to hurt anyone ever again.

Saeyoung and Saeran no longer had to live in fear of losing their lives because of him anymore. That was all they ever wanted. They didn’t have to hide their faces anymore. Frankly, there were people in many places that weren’t happy about their crimes as they were, but the boys had been forgiven for what they’d done by countless people.

Most of them, anyway.

It wasn’t like they had been stashing away all that money consistently. They were consistently fueling it to people in need. Anyone who needed to eat was getting paid. Anyone that was living without parents in their life was getting money. Anyone in need of something. They had been taken care of by the twins for quite a while.

The rest of the money had been for trying to control the crime scene to manipulate a load of real crooks into listening to them. Whatever they didn’t need was just put away so they could either give it back eventually or so they would have some money to get by when and if they were free. Not that the people needed to worry about it.

It changed everything in the town for the better.

But, everything changed in a matter of a few weeks. It went from zero to one-eighty. At the very least, it went from bad to better. Which was the greatest thing that anyone could hope for. The gold that was already taken from the wells couldn’t be placed back, but it could be doled out equally and fairly to all of the members of the town thanks to Jumin Han’s family.

Since his father controlled the banks, everyone’s accounts were layered with weekly reimbursements of gold and silver profits. Because of this, the town was able to grow in more ways than one, with more businesses opening up and people moving into town because everyone supported each other.

It was looking to turn around the town that was only a few months away from the brink of collapse.

Once Saejoong was gone, there needed to be a new mayor… and believe it or not, the people wanted Jihyun to take the job.

He had been such a capable man that had worked to protect everyone, and they all trusted him to do the right thing. He was elected in a landslide after everyone agreed on who they wanted to be in charge for the time being. With him and Jumin at the helm, the town was shaping up to be a great place to be and somewhere that you knew would be okay.

Since he was going to be handling matters of the town now, the bar was given to Yoosung. Who was surprised by the event entirely! But, in all honesty, he and Zen had been running the bar for quite a while on their own apart from Jaehee stepping in now and again to help with the books when she wasn’t busy with Jumin.

So, Yoosung was the one that he trusted most.

Yoosung was excited about the prospect. He had a lot of ideas for the bar, too. He wanted to be able to make it into a restaurant that anyone was welcome to. He and Zen were working together to make things work out with both of their capable hands. It would still be Jihyun’s Bar, but it would be more than anyone ever expected it to be.

While you liked your place at the bar and the job you held, you couldn’t deny that call to adventure that had your name written all over it. As things calmed down and you and the rest of the group had worked together to help the town, you had been dutifully recovering from your attack.

You weren’t on the stage to perform, but after a week of being stuck in bed, you had sat at the bar and gave a song to Zen’s performances. Singing didn’t take too much out of you, and it felt nice to be out and about where everyone was instead of worrying about how things were going. As always, this place was a good place to be.

All and all, things were going together in town.

Even better, Saeyoung had joined you at the same time, stepping in when he wasn’t working with Saeran and Jihyun to play some music along with you. He revealed his secret talent, that he was rather skilled at guitar, but he never had the chance to show it off to other people like he wanted to. He was really good!

Even if Saeran said otherwise.

Saeran had been right by Jihyun’s side the entire time, trying to help him make matters right from what happened with their father. He was taking it personally and seriously to make amends for things. You’d been surprised by that, given the history that you had heard about what the twins went through they’d met Jihyun, but the fact that Saeran was calling him “dad” was telling enough.

Saeran wasn’t trying to become the next mayor, though.

That was the last thing he wanted.

This was just the loose end that had to be tied up for him. Saeran had told you that he wanted to be able to leave the desert for a while, maybe not forever because he knew how much this place meant to you now, but he did want to see the world first.

You knew that feeling.

You knew what it felt like to want an adventure.

Saeran was your adventure now, and anywhere that he wanted to go, you wanted to be. That’s what led to this situation that you were now in. So, when he proposed the idea to you one day if you would be a willing party to go on a trip with him. Of course, Saeyoung was going to be tagging along, but it was a given. He still wanted you to come with him.

Of course, you said yes.

It wasn’t a “goodbye” to the western town that you had come to, but a simple “see you soon.”

Which is how you wound up where you were now, in a little wagon pulled by Begona and Big Dipper, headed out from town and deep along the trails to take you to wherever you wanted to go. Saeran was kind of interested in seeing the ocean since he’d never been able to see that before, well, there were a lot of things that he hadn’t seen before, but…

It was the first thing that came to mind when you asked, “Well, where do you wanna go?”

“I reckon it’d be nice to see the coast?”

“Good choice, Saeranie!”

Saeyoung seemed jazzed about the idea, himself. He had traveled out with Jihyun and seen the coast before, and had described it to his twin with a mystified look in his eyes. It had left a mark on him that Saeran wanted to see. Hilarious, you knew, but it was kind of sweet to see them getting along and sharing these things.

You were happy here with Saeran.

He snorted when you tucked yourself closer to his side, but ignored the urge to make a snide comment to torment you. You’d grown used to him teasing you and pulling your hair now and again. He might have been Saeran now, but he was still your tormentor by all accounts. Which was exactly what you’d wanted, anyway.

“How far do you think we have left?” you asked him, watching as the landscape changed by the minute from the clay and soil, into the greens that you knew very well. “Do you reckon it’s more than a day or two at this rate?”

“I reckon so,” he responded. You’d pay for stealing some of his quirky vocabulary to tease him. But, you liked that little accent of his whether he wanted to agree with that or not. “I ain’t never traveled this far by myself before, so I’m just guessing from what the maps said.”

“It took a while even by train,” you admitted.

“‘Course, we ain’t in no hurry, little Cereus. We’ll get there when we get there… don’t tell me that yer’ gonna start askin’ me that every five minutes. We already got one idiot n’ this car, we don’t need two of ‘em.”

The two of you chuckled.

That seemed to bring Saeyoung’s attention to the scene. He had stopped playing the time being as he leaned forward between the two of you, ignoring the way the wagon bounced against the terrain and could’ve knocked him over. The way that things were changing had caught his eye. Had he traveled in this area before? “I’ll pretend I ain’t hear that. But, hey, do y’all remember when I told ya’ that I met someone when I was gone with Jihyun?”

“...That fake partner ya’ mentioned?” Saeran quipped. You knew what he thought about that person that Saeyoung had brought up now and again. You couldn’t doubt him. Because they all doubted Zen about you! So, who was to say that he was hiding information about somebody just to make some kind of joke?

“They’re not fake!” Saeyoung retorted. He huffed and looked at you for some moral support. “Cereus, ya’ believe me, right? I’m only bringin’ this up because I was wonderin’ if you two would be interested in meetin’ ‘em? After all, they’ve been waitin’ for me to come back n’ see ‘em since I left a few months ago.”

That made you curious.

You raised a brow, “Oh?”

“Absolutely.”

Saeran sighed. He looked back at his twin and shook his head, incredulous. It was like he couldn’t believe that Saeyoung wanted to take a little detour. He wasn’t going to hear the end of it if he didn’t do something about this. “Alright, alright. Ya’ know what? I reckon that I want you to prove that this person is real, then. I’ve heard this spiel too many damn times. Ya’ wanna prove it? Let’s see ‘em, then. Tell me where we’re headed, then.”

“Aw, Saeran, I knew you cared about me!”

“Mainly, I just wanna see if yer’ a liar or not.”

“I’ll admit I’m a little curious, Saeyoung. I’m willing to give you the benefit of a doubt on this one. Be nice, Saeran. Who knows, it might lead us to another adventure!”

“The last thing I want right now  is another dangerous adventure.”

“That settles it, then. To the sea, we go!”

[AUTHOR’S NOTE:] 

Heya Howdy Doodle Doo, don’t let the door close on ya’ because this ain’t over yet.

That’s right. 

This isn’t the end of Cowboy Saeran. Join us soon in the sequel which is going to be a Seven x Reader story. This will be my first long-form Seven x Reader story, and I’m glad to be writing it. I sincerely am going to have to thank countless people for supporting this story and supporting me. I’ve made a lot of new friends that I hope to keep forever thanks to this story. 

My heart is filled with so much love for so many of you fans. 

I’ve received fan art, cosplay, and all kinds of gifts for this story of mine and it means a lot to me that there are people that enjoy something I’ve made so much that they want to play around in my take on the Mystic Messenger characters. So, this isn’t goodbye to you, my loyal cowboy fans.

This is a See You Soon.

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Gibbous Chapter 7

Chapter Title: J is for Jerk

Summary:  Virgil's life is actually going good for once, Roman aside. However, of course something comes down to knock down the metaphorical house of cards, that something's name being Jerad.

Word-Count: 6046

Warnings:  Crying, Death Mention, Gaslighting, Verbal/Physical Abuse, Panic Attack

Previous | Present | Next

AO3 Link

A/N: Hello everyone! I told myself I'd update this fic on my birthday and well here I am! *inserts The Emperor's New Groove gif of Kuzco going "This is my birthday gift to me! I'm so happy!"*

Many thanks to @theeternalspace for listening to my numerous rants about this chapter, reading over this chapter like three times for me and being a patient, encouraging friend. And also thank you to everyone who has left such nice comments on this fic in recent weeks, I appreciate them all <3

Also a majority of this chapter's events take place before Chapter 5 just to clear things up.

-

Roman aside, Virgil’s miserable attempt at life was...far from miserable at the moment. He actually liked his job, for one. His coworkers were friendly and he found sorting books and putting them away weirdly soothing. He had three actual friends. Something he was still reeling from.

Still, even with these good things his mind was prone to worry.  It was annoying. He knew he should be grateful, that he should enjoy it while it lasted. But anxiety isn’t known to be bend to rational thought. That was sorta the whole point of anxiety.

He tried ignoring the impending sense of doom. It had to be just irrational nonsense and nothing more. Except it wasn’t. Something came, carelessly knocking down the tower of cards. That something’s name was Jerad.

Virgil was like 75% percent positive that the letter J in Jerad’s name stood for jerk. Though, Jerad was deserving of a variety of more explicit, foul names than jerk. Virgil, having a healthy fear of death, chose not to disclose them to Jerad himself. Instead, he thought about them, silently, in his head.

But…he wasn’t a jerk all the time; hence the 75%. For as much as Virgil complained about his roommate, Jerad wasn’t that bad of a guy. When he wasn’t drinking or blasting his music of course. It wasn’t like Virgil was in a position to confront him about either of those things.

Jerad let him go late on paying the rent more times than he could count. Hell he wouldn’t have a place to live it wasn’t for Jerad.

He’d been almost eighteen and panicking. When he turned eighteen, he’d be kicked out of the foster care system. While Virgil hated the system, but it ensured him a place to stay and food to eat. Soon that’d be all on him to figure that stuff out. For such a small amount of space, apartments were ridiculously expensive. There’d be no way for him to rent an apartment without resorting to having a roommate to help pay the rent.

It was something he dreaded, because it meant he had to coexist with a virtual stranger. Which really wasn’t different from drifting from foster home to foster home. It still didn’t mean Virgil was fond of the idea.

When Jerad caught a whiff of his dilemma, he’d came to his aid.

“My roommate Robby left me to pay the rest of the lease on my own—skipped town, the bastard. I figure, you can have his room as long as you pay your part of the rent. Whattaya say?” Jerad flashed a grin.

“U—uh sure.” Virgil stammered, “thank you so much!”

“Don’t thank me, it’s what anyone would do.” Jerad laughed, patting Virgil’s back.

Virgil flinched a bit at the action. He didn’t like how Jared patted his back just a little too hard. However he kept his mouth shut. After all, the guy had just offered him a place to stay. Jerad kept rattling on about details for the apartment, appearing completely ignorant of Virgil’s discomfort.

At the time, he knew Jerad as his friendly-but-annoying-at-times coworker. He had no reason to assume otherwise. Especially when Jerad did such nice things like furnish the apartment with a new couch and refused to take Virgil’s money for it.

Sure, sometimes he used those nice things against Virgil when they got into an argument.

“Well since I was the one who brought the couch, I think I reserve the right to watch TV whenever I want to!”

But he was always quick to apologize a day or two later. Such as the incident that happened when Virgil arrived home from the werewolves’ house the first time. Jerad had been drunk that night, yelling and accusing of Virgil attempting to skip town.

Virgil had been terrified. How was he going to explain to Jerad he might not have a job anymore? It was one thing to pay rent late, it was another to have absolutely no money at all. What was he supposed to say?

“Hey, uh, I kinda got kidnapped by werewolves and spent a night locked in their basement, sorry about the inconvenience?”

It sounded laughable to his own ears. Hell, if he hadn’t experienced it himself, he wouldn’t believe it. It was crazy. Paranormal sightings in the city hadn’t happened in the city for years. It was unlikely anyone was going to believe his story. He’d look like the boy who cried wolf, literally .

There was also the fact that he could possibly hurt Patton in the process and…he didn’t want that. Not after anything he’d done for Virgil.

He had to come up with a story that was more believable than that. A lie, essentially. Lying was not Virgil’s forte. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like how it made his stomach churn and his mouth dry. But there was no damn way he was telling the truth.

He paced the narrow length of his room, hands pulling at his greasy locks of hair. A story, a story—what he could possibly say? He got drunk and woke up three states away with no idea where he was? No, no that’s unbelievable. Jerad knew he wouldn’t pull off a stunt like that.

Virgil would have maybe one or two drinks. But never enough to get him flat-out drunk. He disliked the loss of control that came with being tipsy.

Still, Jerad tried his best to pressure him otherwise. Sometimes when none of his other friends were available, he dragged Virgil to bars to be his drinking buddy for the night. He had to come up with something else.

Could he tell the truth and just conveniently leave out the fact they’d been werewolves? Would anyone believe that complete strangers would do such a thing? Virgil wouldn’t.

Amnesia, maybe? A fib about how he got whacked on the head so hard that he completely lost all his memories? It happened all the time in novels and movies. Real life? Not so much.

Virgil let out a pained groan, collapsing onto his bed. He couldn’t think of anything that would satisfy Jerad. Even telling the truth was sure to earn Jerad’s ire. He’d accuse of Virgil of telling a lie even then. There was only one thing that Jerad would believe. It was the very thing he’d accused Virgil the night before.

His chest tightened at even the thought of it. It was just like any of the other explanation he’d thought of telling Jerad; they were all fake. So why was he more conflicted using that one than the others? He hadn’t even denied it when Jerad had brought it up a second time.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, alright?”

Jerad hardly remembered anything when he was plastered. There was a good chance he’d forgotten about the whole interaction from the night before. But there was always a slim chance that he hadn’t. Virgil didn’t like taking that chance.

Okay, he skipped town. That was his story. But why did he skip town? What had made him come crawling back? Think Virgil, think!

His doorknob rattled as an outside force tried turning it open. Jerad. Virgil sat frozen for the few seconds it continued to jingle. He was relieved he’d had the foresight to lock it in the first place. Virgil knew that his thin wooden door was hardly any protection against him and Jerad, a former star high school football quarterback. It was really only a matter of time until Jerad broke through and beat him to a pulp.

Except that didn’t happen. Jerad would never beat him to a pulp—or he’d at least never done it before. There could always be a first time. That didn’t change the fact that Jerad had physically hurt him before. It was only a bruise, here and there.

Drunk Jerad forgot about his own strength sometimes. Sometimes a friendly slap on the back wasn’t so friendly. Still, Virgil had worse. He still had scars left over from high school bullies and the few bad foster parents he’d endured. He never had any lasting marks from Jerad. Only bruises that faded into oblivion.

“Hey Virgin, you awake?” Jerad asked through the door.

Virgil exhaled sharply at the nickname. Jerad wasn’t the first one in his life to call him that. The high school bullies had really jumped on that one. His name Virgil sounded similar to Virgin—hilarious. Truly, comedy gold.

He’d asked Jerad once to not to call him by that. The other had laughed.

“Oh, don’t be such a pussy!” Jerad said, taking a swig of his beer, “It’s true isn’t it?”

“Well yes—”

“Then I don’t see the problem with me stating facts,” Jerad shrugged his shoulders, “Tell you what? I’ll stop calling you that once you find a hot chick to hook up with.”

That interaction with Jerad left a bad taste in his mouth. It was true—Jerad and the others were just stating a fact. Virgil was a virgin. He wasn’t ashamed of it. But he hated how they said it—like it was synonymous with loser. Worse, he was somehow lesser for it.

There wasn’t anything wrong with being a virgin, was there? Or being repulsed by the idea of sex. There was a term for that. Asexuality. He had come across it on Tumblr. It’d been a relief to know he wasn’t the only one. He hadn’t told Jerad. There was no use when he already knew what his response would be.

He’d laugh and tell Virgil he’d change his mind. Or that he was just imagining he was that way. The last one was what Virgil feared most. What if he was just making it up?

Virgil shoved those thoughts away, taking a deep breath. Shit, how long had Jerad been waiting for an answer behind the door?

With a trembling hand, he reached for the door. He unlocked it before swinging it open. Jerad stood there, grinning. He didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign.

“Hi, Jerad,” Virgil said, attempting to keep his voice level.

“You’re really here…” Jerad’s grin grew wider, “I thought you coming back was a dream or something.”

“About that—”

“Oh boy you missed the wildest party ever—I’ll tell you over breakfast, my treat!”

He swung an arm over Virgil who allowed himself to be dragged outside his room, outside the apartment. He’d been too shocked to protest. He doubted he could wiggle out of Jared’s ironclad grip even if he wanted to. Was Jerad after last night really taking him out to eat? Apparently so, as the two walked through the doorway of a cute breakfast café.

Jerad rambled on the party, but Virgil could hardly focus on his words. He nodded at all the right parts, giving the façade he was listening. All he could hear was the thrum of his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

He moved his food around the plate, merely giving the impression he was eating. Virgil never had much of an appetite but he definitely didn’t have one at the moment. His plate was gigantic. Bigger than the typical American restaurant serving, which was already impossible to eat in one sitting. There was a stack of steaming buttermilk pancakes dripping with syrup. A bowl full of fresh fruit. Lastly, there was also a plate with sunny side up eggs, bacon and sausage. His stomach turned to knots just looking at it.

Virgil, not wanting to take advantage of Jerad’s generosity, had tried ordering the cheapest item on the menu. Jared laughed and told the waitress to disregard that. Virgil didn’t correct him when the waitress looked over at him for confirmation. He gave only a feeble nod, his gaze falling onto the checkered tiled floor.

“You’re my friend, Virgil. No need to go starving for my sake!” Jared laughed, giving him a light punch on the arm. It was just a friendly tap, he knew Jared didn’t mean anything by it. He still tensed up when he saw that hand coming towards him.

Virgil had chuckled weakly in response.

He hadn’t taken a single bite of his meal. He felt guilty—Jared had paid for it and he couldn’t even muster up the appetite. He was too busy thinking about how he was to break it to Jared he probably didn’t have a job anymore. Jared often let him pay his rent late—sometimes allowing Virgil to go without paying that month’s rent at all. But this was different. What if he couldn’t find a job? Would Jared throw him out on the streets?

“Hey Virgil, mind sharing a piece of your sausage with me?” Jared asked, jarring Virgil out of his thoughts.

Jared had gotten the same dish as Virgil. In fact, he still had some of his own sausage left. But it wasn’t like Virgil was going to be eating his anytime soon. Virgil nodded, sliding the plate closer to Jared. The other man dug into it, without saying a word of thanks to him.

“Y’know, you’ve been really quiet, V-Man,” Jared said, mouth half full of food, “What’s up with you? Are you constipated?”

“N—no, I just,” Virgil hesitated, “Why aren’t you angry? Weren’t you mad last night?”

Jared’s eyes darkened and immediately Virgil regretted his words.

“I was drunk, Virgin . You know I don’t mean anything when I’m drunk,” He scowled, “Sure I was worried. I thought maybe you pulled the same shit on me as Robby. But I wasn’t angry.”

“You weren’t?”

“Of course not, especially since you came back!” Jared’s eyes brightened once more.

Virgil bit his lips, “Jared, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Now, now none of that chicken shit!” Jared interrupted, clasping Virgil’s shoulder, “I gotta go to work soon, but whataya say that tonight you tell me where you’ve been? We can go hit up a few bars and get fucking wasted.”

“S—sure.”

“A—awesome!” Jared said, mocking Virgil’s stutter, before breaking into a fit of laughter.

Jared never accepted Virgil’s apology or really allowed him a chance to explain. It was probably best, considering Virgil himself didn’t know how. He did allow Virgil to stay at the apartment. He had even been the one to encourage Virgil to go back to Kirby’s to get his job back there.

“C’mon Virgey, man up! Give some sob story about your mother being in the hospital and the old hag will eat it up.”

Virgil clenched his teeth, “Yeah, Jerad, I’m sure that’d work great except my parents are dead .”

“Oh right,” Jerad said, having enough decency to look a bit remorseful, “Well, make something else up then!”

So sure, Jerad was a jerk that played loud music. He was also a jerk that shared his apartment with Virgil and occasionally did nice things like buy him breakfast. So he couldn’t be that bad of a guy, right? Or so he thought.

-----------------------------------

Virgil’s first mistake had been falling unconscious on the couch. It wasn’t even that comfortable, with its’ broken springs and sunken cushions that smelled like liquor. Even his lumpy mattress was a step up to the couch. Really, fifteen paces and he could collapse on his bed within the security of his room.

Fifteen paces, however, seemed impossible to an exhausted Virgil. He worked a full day running on only a few hours’ of sleep in the last 48 hours. It happened when you were an insomniac. Virgil scraped by with copious amounts of coffee. Caffeine always gave him a pounding headache, but it was better than being a literal zombie. He should’ve known all that caffeine would result in a crash.

Virgil shuffled inside his apartment, lasting a few steps in before his vision swarmed. He swayed, his body dipping downwards in a vertical dive. ‘ Oh, I’m falling ,’ He realized belatedly. His last thoughts hoping he made contact with the couch rather than the floor.

“Virgil!”

Someone called his name. He made a sluggish attempt to move his limbs, still fraught with fatigue. How long had he been asleep? It felt like forever. His subconscious threatened to drag him back into its depths. But alas, it was not to be.

Something shoved Virgil off the couch, causing him to collide with the cold hard floor. Virgil let out a groan. The sharp pain coursing through veins jerked him wide awake. A ravenous laughter roared above him. Jerad.

He must’ve shoved Virgil as a joke. That was all there was to it. Nothing to get worked up over. Still, Virgil was on the couch. Jerad’s couch. Jerad was going to yell at him for hogging the couch when he had a perfectly good bed to sleep on--

Virgil’s breath hitched.

This should’ve been where he stammered an apology to Jerad before fleeing to his bedroom. Like he’d done plenty of times before. Except in the midst of Jerad’s laughter, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Without thinking, he pulled it out. That had been his second mistake.

Because it was a text from Patton. The werewolf sent him an outdated meme. Like one might find from a cringey Facebook meme-page frequented by soccer moms and elderly people. But it was from Patton and Virgil couldn’t help the smile that curled across his face.

“Aww Virgie, who you texting? Did you finally get laid?”

A hand snatched the phone away from his grasp.

“Hey give it back!” Virgil lunged toward Jerad, but the former football quarterback easily sidestepped him. This caused Virgil to crash hard into the coffee-table. Virgil stifled a curse as he rose up.

“What? Afraid I’ll see some embarrassing sexts?” Jerad rolled his eyes, his thumb flicking across the cracked screen. His smile dissipated as he scrolled further and further into the text conversation.

“Virgil, what the hell is this?”

Oh no . There wasn’t any reference to Pat being a werewolf was there? Aside from memes, there wasn’t much on there as far as he could recall.

“It’s a text conversation with my friend Patton.” Virgil swallowing, trying to push down the fear that threatened to engulf him.

“Steven Universe? This guy watches little kid shows? Are you friends with a five-year-old?! C’mon this is paaaathetic .”

“Jerad, please give me my phone back.” Virgil begged, reaching for the phone but Jerad held it high above his head.

“Nah, this shit is hilarious. I can’t believe this guy really thinks he’s your friend!”

“Thinks? Jerad, he is my friend.”

But his roommate just laughed as if Virgil told a joke.

“Psh, yeah right. You’re telling me you’re friends with a guy that thinks puns are funny?” Jerad rolled his eyes, “Like this one, ‘don’t go bacon my heart’?”

“Jerad, give it back!” Virgil growled, his eyes shiny with righteous fury. It was one thing when Jerad teased him. It was another thing entirely for him to attack Patton. It didn’t matter the werewolf wasn’t there to hear it. It also didn’t matter he’d have no idea unless Virgil told him. Virgil’s vision still went red.

He hopped on top of the coffee-table, using the added height to make a better grab for the phone. Jerad leapt out of the way, finding the attempt amusing. They began a chase around the cramped apartment, no doubt causing a ruckus for their neighbors to hear. Jerad continued reading the texts in a mocking, shrill voice. It only drove Virgil angrier, making his reaches more frantic.

They had ended up on their apartment balcony when Jerad suddenly halted. Virgil almost ran into him, stopping just in the nick of time. All signs of teasing had left Jerad’s face. It was blank and it was honestly starting to frighten Virgil how he kept scrolling up the text conversation with a blank look on his face.

“Um,” Virgil began nervously, “Jerad, dude, you okay?”

“Are you planning on fucking leaving me without warning, like Robbie?” Jerad demanded.

Virgil took a step back, “What? No!”

“Then what are these texts?” Jerad demanded, before reading them out in a disgusted tone.

Hi Virgil! I noticed some new apartments going up a couple blocks away from the library. They look super cute! It’d only take you five minutes to walk to work!

I heard there was a shooting near your apartment last night, u ok?

Your landlord should really take care of that, it’s a safety hazard!

Wow, I’m sorry to hear that. Your roommate should be more considerate and not play his music so loudly.

Shit . Shit, shit, shit. He’d forgotten about those texts. Patton was unusually concerned about Virgil’s safety. Or at least, Virgil wasn’t used to other people caring for him in that capacity before. He’d been trying to encourage Virgil to find a better living situation for weeks now. Which was great, except Virgil couldn’t do it for a multitude of reasons.

Finding a new apartment would most likely involve finding a new roommate. As Virgil sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to afford an apartment by himself. He couldn’t move in with Remy because the vamp lived on campus. The werewolves’ house was also a no-go because Roman. And besides Jerad would be so upset after everything he’d done for Virgil.

Of course Jerad would come across those texts. Virgil was certain he must’ve broken a mirror or something to deserve this amount of bad luck.

“Dude, I swear it isn’t like that,” Virgil protested, “Patton, he’s just been concerned that--”

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit! Don’t you see what he’s trying to do?”

“W-what?”

“He’s manipulating you--duping you into thinking I’m the bad guy when I’ve been the one helping you longer than he has! I’ve let you skip rent a few times, let you use my couch, my TV and you’re really gonna listen to him? What has he or anyone else have done for you?”

“It isn’t--isn’t like that! Patton, he--he offers good advice, he’s just looking out for me! So is Remy. He helped me get a new job--”

“A new job?” Jerad asked, “why didn’t you tell me you had a new job?!”

Virgil just stared at him, stomach sinking. He told Jerad this weeks ago. It’d taken a lot to tell him, and Jerad, he hadn’t--he didn’t retain any of it?!

“Why do you care so much?” Virgil snapped, taking a step forward, “I’m still paying rent regardless of where I work or who I hang out with.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, that’s all! Don’t you think it’s a little sketch that after you got a little new job, Virgin--”

“My name is VIRGIL,” He snarled, “and if you’re keep acting like a jerk about this, maybe I should just move out!”

Virgil wanted to rip Jerad into shreds and not just with words. Oh no, words weren’t enough. His fists itched for violence, to be red from his roommate’s blood. It scared him how close he was to murdering the 6’4 former quarterback. ‘He deserves it, ’  A little dark voice in his head whispered, ‘He belittled your friends.’

Worse yet, he shouldn’t have said those last words to Jerad. It’d been his third mistake.

He knew it by the way Jerad clenched his teeth, his eyes trailing towards the edge of the balcony. Jerad glanced back at Virgil’s phone and then back at the streets below. He took a step towards the balcony railing.

“No!” Virgil screeched, rushing forward. He snatched his phone away from Jerad right then and there. For a triumphant moment, he held most prized possession in his grasp once more. Then a hand clamped down on him, onto his wrist and he yelped in pain. Jerad. He tugged uselessly to free the grip with his other hand. It was no use. Jerad was so strong, and oh my god he was going to kill him, wasn’t he?

“Jerad, please!” He called out, but his roommate remained resolute in his fury.

He squeezed Virgil’s wrist tighter, attempting to force him to drop his phone. But Virgil refused to let it go, even as tears pricked his vision. It only angered Jerad further. He threw Virgil against the balcony railing. Virgil cried out as Jerad practically dangled him over it, towards the cement sidewalk a hundred feet below.

For one terrifying moment, Virgil thought he’d be sent airborne, flying rapidly downwards to meet a grisly death. It’d be so easy for Jerad to do that. He could get off scot-free, claim Virgil’s death was a suicide. The police would believe him. After all, Virgil was such a nobody that no one would care to look further into it.

With those thoughts swishing around in his brain, he let go of his phone. He watched it fall. Down, down, down until it made brutal impact with the ground like a rocket failing to launch. Jerad released his hold on Virgil. He fell, stomach plummeting as his arms waved wildly in the air. He swore he was falling to his death. Instead his back made impact with the floor of the apartment balcony.

Virgil didn’t stay there. He jumped up at once without sparing a second glance to Jerad. Heart in his throat, he fled the apartment. He ran out of the apartment building, his legs feeling like a pair of unstable Jenga towers; ready to topple at any moment. He kept on running though. He ran until he arrived at the smattered remains of his phone. He collapsed to the ground, hands reaching forward.  As he gathered the pieces into his hands, a pathetic wail escaped his lips.

Everything became one dizzying, gigantic blur after that. Virgil placed the broken phone pieces into his jeans pocket. He remembered that. He must’ve stood at one point, cradling his injured wrist with his other hand. He didn’t know when he started running. It just happened. He ran off, heading to a destination he himself wasn’t sure of.

Each breath felt like a struggle, his lungs straining to take in oxygen. The world looked like he stepped into a watercolor painting. Except it was a ruined painting, all the colors running together to create an ugly blobby mess of something meant to be beautiful.

One thought echoed in his mind on repeat.  He pushed to keep moving forward, to get as far away from Jerad as possible. He had to put distance between him and Jerad, because what if the ruined phone hadn’t quelled Jerad’s anger? What if he ran after Virgil and beat him to a pulp until he felt sated?

He knew he shouldn’t fear such things. Jerad was a jerk, but he wasn’t that bad. Even he wouldn’t dare resort to murder...right?

However in the midst of the moment, all of Virgil’s fears sounded like believable, feasible things. Even if Jerad didn’t chase after him, there was no way he could return to the apartment tonight, if ever. Even just to collect his meager belongings.  Oh god, he left not only his wallet but his hoodie behind in his panic. The hoodie was the last thing his parents had given him--the last thing he had of them.

He choked, almost running smack into a brick wall. He regained his balance halfway, stopping mere inches away. Why had he gotten so angry? Stupid, stupid. He shouldn’t have done that. It was his fault. Virgil could control his temper, whereas Jerad couldn’t help it. Now his phone was broken and he had nowhere to stay for the night. He had no money, no way of contacting the others.

He was going to end up sleeping in an alleyway. A cold, damp alleyway where muggers lurked and he was going to die. He couldn’t count on Patton popping up to save him a second time. He was so weak, so feeble and idiotic, maybe he deserved to die that way. Somewhere in the midst of these erupting volcanic thoughts, he ended up slouched against the brick wall.

Breathe. He needed to breath! But the air around him felt like sulfur poisoning his lungs. Black dots invaded his vision, his head feeling increasingly fuzzy. He was going to pass out. No, he couldn’t allow himself to do that.

He forced himself off the ground, fighting gravity to remain upright. He ran forward in blind panic. It didn’t matter what direction he went, all that mattered was that he kept moving forward. In his state, he could’ve easily ran into the street and got hit by a car. He did indeed run into something. Thankfully it was not a car. Still, the collision sent him reeling backwards, falling towards the cold, unforgiving concrete.

“Holy shit!” Someone cried out, their hand catching his bruised wrist last second to stop his plummet. Virgil hissed at once from the pain the touch brought.

“St-stay back!” Virgil said, stumbling back until he hit the brick wall of a building. Tears obscured his vision, turning the person into a distorted, twisted shadow being.

“Virgil, whoa hey. It’s me, it’s okay.” The stranger insisted, drawing closer. Virgil shook his head, taking up a defensive, curled fetal position. Jerad. It had to be. Virgil wasted too much time lingering in one spot and he paid the price.

“I’m sorry--I--I sorry, I shou-shou-shouldn’t--” He trembled, waiting for a blow that never came. Instead, they fell down beside him, giving him some space.

“Shhh, deep breaths,” They instructed, “One breath in at a time, okay? Can you do that?”

He tried, failing miserably, “N-no--I can’t--sorry--”

“Hey, hey, hey,”  The person hushed, “no more of that. You don't need to apologize. You’re okay, okay?”

“But--but I can’t--” Virgil stuttered, sobs scraping against his throat like jagged pieces of broken glass. No scratch that. It felt like the broken, sharp pieces of what once was his cellphone.

“Shit--hey, I’m gonna just--is this okay?”

An arm slung around his shoulder and Virgil tensed. He was waiting, expecting it to wrap around his throat to choke him to death. But it wasn’t a forceful, bullish grip like he expected. No, it was a light, tentative weight--loose enough for Virgil to escape if he needed to. Virgil sniffled, finally risking a look up. Knitted eyebrows behind dark shades met his gaze.

“Remy?” He whispered.

“Hey there, Virgil,” He smirked thinly, “it’s me, ya boi.”

Virgil kept staring with his mouth agape. It was Remy, it was really Remy and not...him. No way this was real. No way he actually ran into Remy in such a sprawling, densely populated city. Maybe he blacked out, Virgil thought as he started laughing. It was all too much. The pieces of his broken phone digging into his thigh, Jared, his accelerated heartbeat that threatened to send him to cardiac arrest. Everything. And now Remy? Remy is here? It was too much.

“Um, Virgil?” Remy frowned, “You still with me?”

Virgil didn’t respond, still wheezing with laughter. He wanted to sob. He wanted to scream. He wanted to keep on running without ever stopping. He didn’t do any of those things. He just sat there as he laughed, gasping for breath. It sounded weird to him; too high-pitched.

Was Virgil sure he was laughing? Maybe it was Remy. Maybe he decided Virgil no longer worth his time. He was pathetic, an anxiety-riddled loser who was going to die alone and forgotten. He didn’t deserve the kindness Remy offered him, he hadn’t done enough to pay it back.

A voice tried talking over the choked laughter. Their words came out stilted and hesitant. It couldn’t be Remy speaking. The vampire was too confident, self-assured in ways Virgil could never be. Virgil’s lungs burned, he noted distantly. They felt like a tiny microscopic arsonist climbed inside of them and set them on fire. Would microscopic firemen come to put it out?

He knew he had better things to worry about. LIke the possibility that he was in a coma and everything leading to this moment wasn’t real. Remy wasn’t a vampire, just a normal, human work acquaintance. Patton hadn’t saved him from the mugger. In fact, he was probably just a fabrication of Virgil’s mind. So were Roman and Logan. Yup, that had to be it. The mugger had actually shot him and Virgil was in a coma. He was lying unconscious in a hospital bed racking up hospital bills. God, maybe he should just stay unconscious. Have them pull the plug to his miserable existence.

But he didn’t really think hard about these things. Not when he was too busy thinking about microscopic cells wearing fireman hats.

Virgil’s vision went black. For a moment he thought he died, or at the very least went unconscious. It took his exhausted, panicked brain a hot second to realize he was squished against Remy’s black leather jacket.

The vampire had wrapped his other arm around Virgil, embracing in a full-on hug now. It should feel threatening, suffocating even for Virgil. But it was Remy , his heart cried out. Remy who liked the same music as Virgil. Remy who brought him Starbucks. Remy who encouraged Virgil to venture out of his comfort zones.

Even now, he held Virgil in a loose, relaxed grip. As if his aim wasn’t to restrain or throttle Virgil but to comfort.

Virgil didn’t trust like that. He took a deep breath--or well, he tried. It spluttered into a coughing fit. He mustered on with his plan. He pushed away, scrambling backwards from Remy. It hurt more than it should have to do it. He felt all warmth leave his body at once. Remy didn’t fight it. He didn’t pull Virgil back, yanking him back into the embrace. He let him go, simply watching him. Remy’s shades pushed up against his messy bangs, no longer covering his red eyes. Virgil squinted up at him. Huh. Had Remy’s eyes always been red? Virgil had never noticed before.

“Virgil--”

Remy didn’t finish. Because by the time he opened his mouth, Virgil already dove back into the vampire’s arms. He pressed his face into Remy’s chest, his whole body trembling as a low, strained whine emanated from him.

Remy, for his part, just hugged him back. No words, just tactile comfort. It was exactly what Virgil needed. His adrenaline fell away from him, like bathwater rapidly disappearing down the drain. His rapid, frenetic  thoughts halted to a slow, sluggish trickle. His limbs grew heavy, his grip on Remy’s black leather jacket slackening. He was going to lose consciousness soon, he drowsily realized. Weirdly enough, he wasn’t as afraid of that happening as before.

Remy whispered a question and Virgil nodded. He didn’t know exactly what Remy asked. It had something to do about if Virgil thought it was okay to do something. It didn’t matter what that was.

The words could’ve been anything and Virgil would’ve responded the same way. Because Remy was safe, he was good and most importantly, he wasn’t going to hurt Virgil. Not yet, anyways. With that reassurance, Virgil finally let go of his remaining frays of consciousness.

[lady-divine-writes]

Moral Arguments (Chapter 2 of 2)

Summary: Crowley doesn't exactly take assignments anymore, but sometimes he does things for fun - like answering the call of a broken-hearted woman summoning a demon on St. Valentine's Day. But what Crowley thinks is going to be a simple hex-and-go turns into more emotionally charged than he bargained for.

(AO3)

Bzzz-bzzz

Bzzz-bzzz

…

Bzzz-bzzz

Bzzz-bzzz

…

“Holy Heaven!” Aziraphale exclaims, batting the air around his face. “The mosquitoes are out and about early this year. Odd considering it’s been so cool out lately …”

“Uh … I think that’s your phone.” Anathema gestures to the table with her half-drunk tumbler of whiskey.

“My wha---?” Aziraphale turns to his rotary phone sitting on his desk and waits for it to make a noise, but it doesn’t.

And the buzzing continues.

“Not that phone.” Anathema snorts. “Your cell phone.”

Aziraphale turns to the table, searching amid the half-empty cups of tea and the polished clean glasses of alcohol for the new cellular phone Crowley had given him. The accursed thing wasn’t so much a gift from his demon but a means to an end since Crowley isn’t fond of not being able to get in touch with his angel every blessed hour of the day - hilarious conceptually since they live together.

In protest, Aziraphale rarely answers it, requiring Crowley to race down to his shop anyway whenever he needs to speak with him.

The phone is apparently on vibrate, and Aziraphale neither knows how it got there nor how to get it to stop. Crowley must have done it when he entered his number in because there’s a rather obnoxiously smug photograph of Crowley on the screen with the words Anthony J Crowley underneath.

“Oh, yes. So it is. Thank you, my dear.” He picks it up and presses an icon marked call. “Hello?” he says, but it continues to buzz. He presses a green picture of a phone and repeats, “Hello?” but that does nothing either. After a third try and fail, Anathema, not quite drunk enough to deal with this hiccup in their plan, grabs the phone out of Aziraphale’s hand, swipes the phone icon with a terse, “There,” and shoves it back.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale!” he hears Crowley whisper hoarsely.

Aziraphale gives Anathema a bitter eye as she goes back to her seat on the sofa. He squares his shoulders, puts the phone to his ear, clears his throat, and says, “Crowley?”

“Aziraphale! I found the place.”

“Excellent!”

“Put the call on speaker,” Anathema says. When Aziraphale shoots her a confused look, she grabs the phone again and does it herself, laying it down on the table for all of them to hear.

“Now what?” Crowley asks.

“What do you mean, now what?” Aziraphale says, leaning in unnecessarily to talk into the phone. “You’ve done this sort of thing before, I trust. Go … do whatever it is you do.”

“Yes, I recognize that, but there are complications.”

Three pairs of eyes meet across the table, equally bewildered. Anathema and Aziraphale look to Samantha for an explanation, but Samantha shrugs and mouths, ‘I don’t know.’

“What sort of complications?” Aziraphale asks.

“I don’t want you mad at me, do I? Revenge work is highly desired amongst demons because it tends to get bloody. Now, I don’t mind getting my hands dirty for a good cause, but if anything I’m about to do will get me banished to the sofa for the foreseeable future, I’d like to know beforehand.”

“I see. What would you normally do?”

“I could turn him inside out.”

“Ewww!” Samantha and Anathema say in unison, while Aziraphale looks like he’s about to lose his lunch.

“Anything else?”

“The usual, really. I can bury him up to his neck in sand, pour maple syrup over his head and let the ants have at him. I can turn him into a one legged rabbit and throw him to the wolves. I can give him a flesh-eating disease. I can poke out his eyes and make him eat them …”

“Enough, enough!” Samantha says with a hand to her reeling stomach. “A-are all his options so violent?”

“He is a demon, my dear.”

“I could castrate him,” Crowley offers.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snaps. “If Samantha wasn’t amenable to the idea of eye eating, I don’t think …”

“No, no, wait, Mr. Fell,” she interrupts. “He may be onto something.”

“Are you quite serious?” Anathema gasps.

“I …” Samantha bounces the idea around in her head, looking as certain as she looks uncertain. “I---I think so.”

“That sounds like a yes to me,” Crowley says in a chipper tone. “Let’s get on with it!”

“Let’s back away from the cheerful dismemberment for a moment, shall we, and have a bit of a chat. Look …” Aziraphale leads Samantha back over to the sofa and sets her down, taking a seat beside her “… take a moment and think – if you were going to make him pay for his crimes without demon assistance, how would you do it?”

“Well, I wouldn��t want it to be fast,” she says. “I mean, I assume you can’t live once you’ve been turned inside out, right?”

“I can make that happen.”

“Shhh!” Aziraphale scolds the phone. “No,” he says, turning back to his guest, “he can’t live once he’s been turned inside out.”

“That’s what I thought.” Samantha’s eyes go distant, her thoughts drifting between Aziraphale’s bookshop and somewhere else. “The bigger person in me wants him to learn. To be sorry. To be better. But the petty person inside me wants him to suffer …”

On the other end of the line, Crowley cheers.

“… to live the way I’ve been living. In fear. With heartbreak.” Her lower lip wobbles, her voice cracks. “But mostly the things I want, I want for me. I want my sister back. We haven’t spoken since they ran off together. I want my sense of security back. Every time I change the locks on my house, he seems to find a way in anyway. A-and I don’t have the money to move. Not that it would matter. He’d probably find me.” She sniffles. “A-and I … I want my dog back.”

She drops her head to her hands, weeping openly. Anathema sits beside her, puts an arm around her shoulders and hugs her. Aziraphale takes her hand and gives it a squeeze.

“I know, my darling. I know.”

“Necromancy?” Crowley pipes in. “Is that what we’re talking about? Or just a straight resurrection? Because I can do either.”

“No, I don’t think that’s the way to go,” Aziraphale says, “but I do have a plan. Stand by, Crowley, my dear. I’m about to send you a textual message.”

Crowley sighs. “A text message, angel. A text message. For Satan’s sake.”

“Ah, yes. A text message,” Aziraphale repeats, throwing Anathema a conspiratorial wink. “Thank you.”

“Angel?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

Crowley clears his throat. “Could you … uh … take me off speaker?”

“Dearest, I wouldn’t know where on Earth to begin.”

“Oh … right. Well, before I go, I just wanted to say …” Crowley clears his throat again “I … I love you.”

Aziraphale smiles at the phone. “I love you, too, dear. Now hold on, and be careful.”

“I will.” The phone clicks, the call ended. Samantha peeks up and sighs.

“You guys seem so much in love,” she says. “How long have you been together?”

“Oh, my dear girl …” He hands her a tissue for her watery eyes, taking one for himself after “… it feels like an eternity.”

***

It had not been a good day for Richard.

Not a good day at all.

Being a sewage monkey, on the whole, was a crappy position (pun intended).

But it had its perks.

The salary for one. He couldn’t sneeze at 45,000 euros per year. That’s been more than sufficient to keep him comfortable and then some. What with the way the sewage works kept mucking up, contracts abounded, needing to be filled.

Ergo, the work never ended.

People gotta shit, right?

And they had to be full of it lately.

If things kept going the way they were, he’d be able to retire in roughly ten years.

And for another thing …

…

Nope, that’s it. The salary is the only perk.

But today, everything that could go wrong did go wrong.

There were three major clogs in London proper, and even though that meant o.t. padding his paycheck close to triple, he’d been working in a damp, congested sewer for nearly three days straight with little sleep and less of an appetite.

And boy, did he smell like it.

Today he found out the brat he’d been training is the nephew of his supervisor, poised to take his uncle’s job next year! He should have been offered that position hands down! He’s been working with this same company for over two decades, slogging through putrescence and unimaginable filth, and for what? Now he’s going to be answering to a kid half his age!

Nu-uh. No way. From day one, that kid steps onto site, Richard is going to make his life hell.

To top it off, just as his crew got the all clear to leave, he took a wrong turn, ended up on the M25, and got stuck in traffic for over three hours!

Three hours of traffic? At midnight!?

It seemed evil, like the whole world was out to get him.

Richard turns off the engine of his sedan and sighs. Yup. Today sucked, but at least he’s home now.

He can’t really see things getting worse.

He opens his driver’s side door and pours his numb ass out of his seat. He can’t feel most of the left side of his body, having shifted his weight over an hour into his commute when the right side said, “Fuck you!” and fell sleep. Now he’s limping like a castrated dog up his driveway to his pitch black house.

And that triggers another awful realization.

Valentine’s Day ended hours ago.

And he missed it.

Not just that, he outright forgot about it.

And from the fact that there’s not a single light on in his house, his girlfriend must be pissed.

Temperamental little bitch, just like her sister. She’ll nag the shit out of him about this the second he walks through the door.

Or she’s dressed in head to toe sweats and a hoodie, wrapped beneath the covers like a mummy, prepared to give him the cold shoulder till the foreseeable future.

He’s gotta think of something quick to save his sex life.

“Fuuuuuuuuck!” he bellows, kicking stiff-legged at gravel on the asphalt. “Fuck fuck fuck!” He spins around, searching for a solution that will hold her off till morning. Maybe some flowers from the neighbor’s yard? They looked morbidly brown and wilted when he left for work, but in the dark, would she know the differ---?

“Pardon me, but does your name happen to be Dick Bag?”

“What?” Richard sees the man who interrupted his thoughts emerge from the shadows, strolling over in all black from his jacket to his jeans. “Whaddya mean is my name Dick---?” He rolls his eyes. “Richard Sack. My name is Richard Sack.”

“Same difference.”

“What’s it to ya?”

“I have a message for you from an old friend. Samantha?”

‘Speak of the devil …’ he thinks. “And who are you then? Another process server?” Richard chuckles. “You can tell that bitch she can take me to court all she wants, but nuthin’s gonna happen. She can’t pin shit on me.”

“Ah, now, you see …” Crowley takes a few more steps forward “… you just said the wrong thing.”

“Why? You fuckin’ her?” Richard slams his car door, then goes about punching his palm with his fist, trying to come off intimidating. “I didn’t take her for the goth type.”

“Not the goth type.” Crowley cracks his neck. “More like the demon type.”

“Yeah, right. You shittin’ me or sumthin?”

“Not at all.” A wind blows around them and, suddenly, Crowley stops. His nose wrinkles. He makes a noise and takes a step back. “But it smells like you’ve been. Jesus Christmas! What the Heaven did you step in?”

“Gonna be the remains of your skinny dead ass in a second!” Richard lunges at Crowley, swinging away. Crowley steps to the side, snapping his fingers when he does. Richard flies past him and lands on the ground, struggling within the confines of his clothes, extreme alterations made to his body.

His legs have been fused together, forming one thick limb resembling a mermaid’s tail covered in denim scales. Likewise his arms have melded to his sides, creating an overall fish-like effect.

And he has no mouth. Not a seam of it remains. Just a patch of smooth skin where lips should be.

He squiggles and writhes, building up momentum until he starts rolling down the driveway. Crowley follows him leisurely, knowing where he’s headed. The wriggling mass of human flesh called Richard rolls and rolls until he hits the tire of his sedan and stops, wedged in underneath with his head sticking out, his face staring up. He moans and groans with eyes squeezed shut, begging with muffled words for God to help him.

Crowley waits to see if She will. When She does nothing, he takes that as the go ahead.

He taps Richard on the forehead with the toe of his snakeskin shoe to get his attention. Richard opens eyes bulging with fear. Crowley can feel his fear, taste it like a fine wine slipping down his throat. A rare vintage.

Like an angel’s kiss.

And it’s delicious.

For a moment, he has to remind himself that in this situation, he’s one of the good guys … so-called.

“You have to admit, you had this coming. Now …” He crouches low so the man can hear him clearly “… I’ve got some good news and some bad news – take it as you will. I’ve been on the phone with my people all night, trynna figure out what would be the best possible punishment for a slimy piece of work like you. I wanted to go with an old favorite – turn you inside out and let the buzzards pick you apart … alive …”

That shuts Richard right up.

“… but my lot, well, they’re a might more compassionate than me. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. And you’re gonna go along with it, because the second you deviate from the plan, I won’t care what my side has to say - I’ll snap my fingers and turn you into a human meat suit. Understand?”

“Mmm!” Richard mutters, nodding emphatically, scream-murmuring to the tune of, “I understand! I understand!” if it were being yelled behind a thick wall of flesh.

Which it is.

“Good. Nice to see you being reasonable for a change.” Crowley raises his hand and Richard’s eye go wide. He starts mumbling, something that sounds vaguely like, “No! No! You promised!” but Crowley has stopped paying attention. This is where the fun begins. “Let’s go, Dicky! Time to do some penance!”

***

“So, you framed him for how many crimes?”

“About eighteen.” Crowley accepts a glass of wine from Aziraphale as his angel sits beside him on the sofa, cuddling in closer than usual. “All very old, and very, very cold, but within a reasonable enough timeframe to make them plausible.”

“But … but what about the real criminals?” Samantha asks, worried that, in solving her one problem, she’s unknowingly created problems for eighteen other people. “Will they ever be held accountable?”

“There’s no need,” Crowley says after a swig. “The crimes in question never happened.”

“Let’s just call them a work of forensic fiction,” Aziraphale offers, beaming at his clever demon.

“Mmm …” Crowley interrupts his next sip to say “… except for one. He’s been charged in connection to the disappearance of the Roanoke Colony. I threw that in there for fun. If anyone ever tries to double check it, it’ll disappear.”

“So all’s well that ends well,” Anathema says.

“I guess,” Samantha agrees halfheartedly, gazing sadly into her cup.

Crowley looks at his husband, his angel watching the young lady, their triumph of the night bittersweet, all things considered.

“Look,” Crowley says, “you were right. There was no reasoning with him. He wouldn’t hear it even if I tried. I could read his thoughts. They were very clear on the subject of you. He deserves what he got. Every damned inch of it.”

“I agree,” Samantha says. “I just wish things were different.”

“They will be,” Aziraphale promises. “Tonight was simply the first step.”

“Yeah, have hope and all that.” Crowley downs the remains of his wine and snakes an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “And before you know it, things will turn around, just like that.”

Crowley snaps his fingers.

Aziraphale smiles.

Outside the bookshop, someone knocks on the door.

“Oh! Who in the Devil could that be this late at night?”

“’dunno,” Crowley says, picking up his miraculously filled glass of wine. “Someone should go check. I would but …” He raises his glass and hugs his husband.

“Would you be a dear and go answer that, Samantha?”

“Um …” Samantha eyes Aziraphale and Crowley suspiciously “… okay?” She gets up from her seat and slowly walks through the stacks to the front door. Before she gets there, the person outside knocks again, making her jump nearly a mile high.

But this time, the phantom visitor speaks.

“H-hello? Is … is anybody in there?”

Samantha’s brow furrows, her fear dissolving, replaced by confusion “Libby?” she says, opening the locks as quickly as she can.

“I --- I’m a little bit lost, I’m afraid,” the voice continues. “I don’t know where I am. I saw the lights on and I …”

Samantha unlocks the door and holds it open wide. A woman darkens the doorway, dressed in blue jeans and a plum hoodie, a brown leather bag slung over her shoulder, bulging as if it may contain most of what she owns.

A woman who looks remarkably like her.

“Sammy?” the woman whispers, peering at the figure in front of her like it may be a ghost, might disappear with her breath if she speaks too loudly. But as she realizes what she’s seeing is real, she throws her hands to her mouth and cries. “Sammy!”

“Libby! Oh my God! Libby!” Samantha grabs Libby by the elbow and pulls her inside. She throws her arms around her sister, hugging her with all her might as she cries into the shoulder of her sweater. “H-how did you know I would be here?”

“I---I didn’t!” Libby confesses. “I was on the bus to London and the driver let me off outside. He said … he said he didn’t know why he even came here, but he couldn’t take me any further.”

“What were you doing going to London at this hour?”

“I … I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know, but at the time, it seemed really important.”

“What do you think, angel?” Crowley asks, relaxing into the cushions in his favorite way possible – with a glass of wine in one hand and his angel under his arm, holding him tight. “Did I do good?”

“Fabulously,” Aziraphale says, glowing in the low light. “I don’t think I could have done better myself.”

“Uh … and the dog?” Anathema asks, speaking in hushed tones between the two. “You didn’t forget the dog, did you?”

“Oh, a dog will come,” Crowley says like a dark promise, grinning wickedly.

Aziraphale gasps. “Tell me you didn’t order up a Hellhound?”

Crowley snickers. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Crowley!”

“Like you said, she did summon a demon. I’ve been all sorts of noble tonight. I get to do one demonic thing, don’t I?”

“Anthony!”

Crowley goes pale. In all their time together, Aziraphale has never voluntarily called Crowley Anthony. If he’s doing it now, he must mean business.

Crowley has no intention of finding out what that business entails.

“All right, all right,” he accedes, snapping his fingers twice. “Labrador it is.”

[sugarfreeslushies-blog]

Starbucks is a synonym for “Wingman” { Jeremy Heere X Reader }

Sometimes it's the most effective method to meet your crush for some basic coffee at Starbucks. 

(Wordcount ; 1,716 - I uploaded this on my AO3 Account as well)

Impaitently I wait at the entrance of the mall. { Y/N } was supposed to be here five minutes ago, did they just ask me to grab Starbucks with them as a joke? No, I tell myself. { Y/N } really wouldn't ghost me, they went out with worse than me. (It's rude to think things like these, but it's true) They aren't like that, I can trust them because besides Michael, they are one of my only friends and I've known them since elementary school. "Jem-Jam!", they call, immediately a low and embarassed groan rolls over my lips. I roll my eyes. 'Why, just why', I ask myself. After all these years they did not dismiss that nickname.

I turn my head and see their familiar face; their familiar hair colour. Seeing them flashes a vivid mental image of them in elementary school. Third grade, first day after summer, they standing infront of our class. Painfully, I automatically remind myself of the foolish crush I had on them. They always looked amazing, their personality was radiating, while I was just the chubby, awkward kid. My admiration for them never went away. I wonder why they still stick with a loser like me, they never had a phase where they resented either me or Michael until now, even when they were asked by the popular kids to hang out quite a few times. They finally approach, get infront of me and want to embrace me in a hug. I return the gesture and feel their chest against mine, their hair tickling my bare jaw. I feel incredibly comfortable having them this close to me. I assure myself, it's platonic. Absolutely platonic, they wouldn't be after me anyway. They have plenty of options and if I am honest, I might be ones of the second choices.

While having { Y/N } in my arms, I briefly remember how they used to be taller than me; until I overshot them by a couple proud inches in Middle School. Michael would sometimes tease them for that by telling them to get the furthest up item in the grochery store or purposely pick the biggest size of sweatshirts for them so they'd look sunken in. I only smile at that mental picture as we make our way to our destination, Starbucks. { Y/N } gets out their phone, I see them open their messenger, most likely to supply me with the newest gossip from Jenna Rolan, she actually talks to them. Then again, Jenna is usually out to find someone to just dump her gossip onto, not to demean them in any way, but that is how Rolan rolls. I mentally slap myself for that pun. "So Jer-Jam", they begin as we approach the Coffee Shop. Their eyes twinkle with mirth and I wonder what they will be telling me.

"Did you know that Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Reyes are supposedly a thing?", they began to gossip and slid their phone in the pocket of their jacket. "Really?", I inquire as we get in the queue. "Yep, Jenna said that Olivia Hansen saw them getting at it in the Janitor's closet", their voice gets lower the more details they spill. "I call bullshit, though." I nod in agreement, "Olivia is known to spread fake news like wildfire. Probably just saw two students if anything." Then they clearly dip into sarcasm, "Oh Jeremy", they say, clutching their chest a little fake dramatically and sighing in exasperation, "You are seriously the best guy to gossip with." What I don't notice is their gaze drifting off into an affectionate one. I turn away before that.

Shaking my head and snorting a little, I take a glance at the menu. I go for a basic Java Chocolate Chip Frappucchino. Nobody ever went wrong with Chocolate, not that I am often at Starbucks, but I only hear that this is supposed to taste good, so I go with that. { Y/N } heckles besides me. I raise an eyebrow, as they begin to talk. "I bet you're gonna go for the most white girl drink ever, Java Chocolate Chip Frap, am I right?" They mock me. I know they aren't truthful, I honestly live for our playful roasting sessions though. "Better make work for the Baristas easier than list all the extras you prefer, { Y/N }", I shoot back sassily.

After ordering, giving our names (obviously giving names that are hilariously difficult to spell, the barista gave us a "are-you-two-seriously-fucking-with-me-like-that-right-now" stare), we pay for our beverages and I sneak a glance at them while waiting for our Frappucchinos to be prepared. While I am not the guy to dig people only for their appearance, I have to admit that { Y/N } does have a nice body. My eyes scan them from head to toe and I note, they like to dress so they empathise only the best about them. It was no miracle that Jake Dillinger once pined after them and went to School Dance in Sophomore Year with them, making me pretty envious of Jake, because in the end, I had to friend-date Michael, not that I minded, but he had been of the view that { Y/N } and I would have been a good match.

Soon after paying and adjusting our drinks at the counter, we sit down a little further away from all the shoppaholics ad sip on our drinks. The mall is huge and lucky for us, there is a calm niche near a Subway. Nobody ever goes here and usually, Michael goes here to pick up some Mary Jane, but only on Mondays. "I don't get why Starbucks is so praised", I confess, stabbing with my straw in the icy coffee/milk/whipped cream mixture. Meanwhile { Y/N } takes a sip and moans lowly. It feels like a flash zaps through my body. That sounded dangerously sexual to me. A deep breath rolls out of my mouth, I take another sip and continue my confession, "I mean, you can get all the ingredients at the grochery store and you can surely prepare it at home as well." "I like it", they reply, straw between their teeth as they suck more of their sugary drink. "Sure, it's hella overpriced, but it's good and making that-" They raise the cup a little before resuming to their argument. "-at home, dunno, would just take the, y'know, Starbucksness away about it." A chuckle errupts from the back of my throat, { Y/N } can be so cute.

"Did you say something, Jer-Jam?", they ask. 'Fuck', I think fearfully to myself. Did I just say that aloud? I feel my face slightly heat up. In my head I pray they didn't understand what I just said. Their familiar { EYECOLOUR } eyes glance up at me through their lashes while they are a little hunched over. I'm usually not that poetic, but hell, I could get lost in them every, damn, day. I feel weird admitting it, but I win every staring contest against them, because I just space out looking into their eyes. So, my heart nearly stops. I scold myself for why I am thinking this way about one of my best friends. They. Are. Not. After. Me. Get that in your head, Jeremiah Heere.

Finally, they lean back up, they took off the lid of their drink and now some some whipped cream was sticking to their upper lip. "{ Y/N }", I say, reaching for one of the napkins we took, "You got some on your li-" I don't get any further as they playfully wink at me and let their tounge run along their upper lip. I feel a warmth pool in my lower body and my drink kind of slips out of my hand, I drop it and it spills all over my pants. "Fucking Hell!", I curse loudly while they errupt into laughter, before they hand me the napkins to somehow rub my pants dry. Which is an awkward task.

Due to the fact that I deem rubbing my pants dry, slightly inappropriate in the middle of a mall, I go with patting them dry and { Y/N }'s idea of quickly popping in at H&M to buy a new pair. It's not ideal as I seriously didn't want to spend more money today than on sugary coffee. (Sugary coffee, that is coating my pants) With my friend's help we quickly picked out three pants for me to try on and now I'm standing here in the dressing room of H&M. I eye myself critically. It fits, however I need { Y/N}'s input on it. "How's it look?", they call from the outside, "Can I come in?" I accept.

Their { EYECOLOUR } eyes roam over me and I swear I saw a hint of need in them. "Suits you", they comment and then look up to face me. A moment of silence wages between us until they lean in and give me a chaste kiss on the cheek. My jaw hangs open. "W-Wha-", I begin to stutter as I feel my face become dangerously hot. "Apology, for ruining your old pants." I feel my heart pound as I wordlessly stare at them, they stare back. I don't know if we both are thinking the same thing right now, however, almost as if we are mirroring each other, we both lean in and our lips meet somewhere inbetween again.

A low groan runs over my lips as they push me against the fullbody mirror at the wall and push aside the stool. The noise irritates me for a moment, but I quickly dismiss it, I'm making out with my longterm crush in a goddamn H&M changing room.

~ extra ~

"Those hickeys weren't necessary", I mumble as we approach the checkout with two pants on hand. { Y/N } smugly waltzes next to me, with the knowledge that everyone can see the hickeys they made at my neck. (I consented to them, of course, it's just really embarassing since they are so visible, I also somehow regret I didn't do any at their neck) The lady at the checkout just eyes us and shakes her head, I still worry but { Y/N } interwinds their fingers with mine, while I pay. I feel slightly better.

[not-poignant]

As an American, US grammer pisses me off to. What in particular is bothering you?

Actually I have no problems with US grammar in general. (I’m sorry anon, but it’s not my grammar, and aside from the habit of removing inoffensive letters like ‘u’ from colour, it’s awesome). I mean if you’re raised a USian, it’s a perfectly fine set of grammar rules to follow and that’s the way it should be?

So there’s my short answer :D US grammar gets a thumbs up.

The longer answer is more complex. So that’s being shoved under a cut.

What bothers me is the culturally imperialistic attitudes that US grammar should be applied to english-speaking authors from the UK, Canada, Australia and other english-speaking countries. We all have our own grammar rules, they are also each perfectly fine sets of grammar rules to follow, and each have a lengthy history behind them. Not only that, but it‘s what we see in our published books (US folk may not know this, but books written by US authors are often re-’translated’ into Australian grammar (or UK grammar and so on) before being reprinted here under whichever publisher or imprint handles it - this, the job of localisation, is almost always the job of the in-house editors that a publisher hires), it’s what we see in our newspapers, in our dictionaries and thesaurses, and so on.

The internet clouded that a little, with globalisation you get the callous hammer of cultural imperialism. Suddenly most of the blog posts you’re seeing on the internet are in American English, for example. But that’s cool too, that happens - you’ll get marked down though, if you dare to let that slip into your essays or fictional writing at university or highschool or even primary school; so our localised grammar is very much taught strongly to us. It means that the inherent spellcheck for my browser flags words that I know are correct, like colour, globalisation and localised. I have to jump through some hoops to change that, but as long as it stays away from my word processor, I’m okay with it, lol.

So you have this thing called localisation editing. It is a process of editing something to fit local grammar - because if you open up to global english-language submissions (and most publishers do), you also open up to getting a whole bunch of texts following different (but perfectly sound) grammar rules. Usually you can stipulate a couple of rules yourself - times new font in pt 12, margins of whatever width, paragraph indents and not tabbing. Etc. Simple things that authors just about anywhere can generally follow fairly easily.

Localisation is not an easy process. Think about how long you spend learning the grammar of your country, and then think about how jarring it is sometimes to come across obvious differences. Then think about all the things that are invisible to you because you take them for granted. Think that there are huge, encyclopedic compendiums of grammar rules, that people can go to university and study for three years - just that one set of grammar rules, not for any other country - to become an editor, and still be considered a ‘newbie editor’ because there’s so much to learn and so many ways to apply it to texts.

What bothers me is when US publishers forego paying their editors by asking for authors to do this form of localisation editing labour for them for free. It takes money from people who have trained as editors to know how to do this. It forces authors into an uncomfortable position of trying to apply what they know of another country’s grammar rules to their own grammar - sometimes this is easy, a search replace for colour to color? Sure. But for punctuation, sentence structure, or even word differences, or the commonality of some cursewords over others for example, no. Is it an em-dash here or an en-dash? Is it a quote or a quotation or something else? Is this italics or underlined? 

That level of localisation is a job for the professionals. Professional authors are professional authors, but they are not professional editors.

So it bothers me when US publishers in the m/m industry in particular, offload this burden so they don’t need to hire as many editors, and foist it upon authors outside of their country.

Also, generally speaking, I just like writing in the grammar rules I was taught. I enjoy Australian grammar. I’m glad that I know our spoken dialogue in fiction is enclosed in these: ‘ ‘ instead of these “ “ and that the latter will get you marked down for ‘Americanisation.’ (The former will get 15 year old Americans coming into your AO3 comment box to explain how you’re ‘doing it wrong’ because of the ubiquity of US grammar rules lol). As far as I’m concerned, outside of arguments over the Oxford comma (for the record, I’m against, lol, even though I think the memes in favour of it are hilarious), I think they are a logical set of rules that help improve the readability of what I write, and they aren’t impenetrable to people who don’t live in Australia. This is proven by y’know, all the people who read my fics who aren’t in Australia. Which is pretty much almost all of you.

(Hi folks you’re all awesome).

So it’s not really US grammar on its own that’s the problem, on its own it’s just an innocuous set of grammar rules. There’s a great book on the subject of American language by the way, by Bill Bryson, called Made in America: An Informal History of the English Language in the United States which is awesome and very entertaining.

Also, there’s places where I do actually Americanise my writing a little. I use pants instead of trousers - that doesn’t come naturally to me and it jars me every time I do it. I tend to use yard instead of garden, I often use sweater instead of jumper, and I occasionally use trash instead of bin. These things - if I had used them as a kid - would have earned a disapproving glower from any adult nearby along with a sharp ‘you’re not an American, don’t use that language!’ Lol. There’s a few others that are probably so invisible to me now I don’t know what they are anymore. Needless to say were I submit that work to an Australian publisher all that stuff would get corrected back to appropriate Australian grammar.

Anyway, mostly, I find it frustrating that there are publishers in the insular m/m publishing bubble that place the burden of localisation editing on authors (which is inappropriate, and also a very incomplete process, and it shows - it’s why m/m editing often comes under fire; probably because they expect authors who haven’t been trained in formal editing to do so much of it for no compensation, while asking editors to do too much for little pay.) It’s also why a lot of m/m authors are turning to self-publishing. It’s not just me that finds this infuriating; I’m not alone. There’s editors and authors aplenty out there who hate it, and are often outraged to find that this is the way it’s done in this particular genre.

But hey, it’s no skin off my nose, self-publishing is a new and incredible frontier, and I know plenty of Australian editors who can look over my work before I publish it (and US betas who can go ‘um what’s a ute?’ - utility vehicle btw and help out on that side of things).