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apachefirecatTitle: Believer
Dedicated To: Both my Js, James and Jordan <3 And to Amy, who made the request.
Fandom: RPF (Real People Fic)
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: James
Rating: PG/K+
Summary: He's a believer, but not much more.
Word Count: 1,842
Written For: Amy, aka Asphaltcowgrrl, who made the request: James - magical creatures & seduction & intimacy. Also fills 1 Million Words A to Z: B (Believer) and (I *think*, still gotta check with the mod) 100 Fandom Hell
Warnings: RPF
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
He's always been a believer. That is really all he's ever been, no matter what the world thinks. They see him as an actor, as a singer, as one of the most popular male stars on television. They see him as a man lost in her shadow. They see him as the enemy to the pairing they want for their favorite televised heroine. They see him as anything more than what he really is, a believer... and a loser.
He refuses to bury his head in his hands tonight, however. Doing so will not get him anywhere. The show is over. The curtain has fallen. But he must go on. He must always find a way to go on, which is what's brought him to this bar, this little, dingy hole in the road that reminds him of another bar and another time. He wonders if she ever thinks of that bar. He wonders if she ever thinks of the little people who filled it.
He doesn't have to wonder if she thinks of him. He knows she does. The moments they shared, the pretend kisses and the not-so pretend ones. They affected them both deeply, scared her even, he believes, and for good reason. He has nothing to offer her. She chose a better man, one her age, one who could supply her with both her dreams of raising children and raising her own star. He would have only brought her down. That's all he does: he only ever brings them down.
Yet, still, he believes. He tries so hard not to. He has no reason to, and even if love exists, there's nothing out there for someone like him. There's no one out there for someone like him. Isn't two failed marriages more than enough proof that he doesn't deserve love, that he doesn't deserve a good woman? He's a scumbag. He knows it, but he can't rise above that title.
He wishes he could, but he can't. No matter how hard he struggles, he's always going to be labeled for thinking with the thing between his pants. He can't help it that he's a romantic. He can't seem to help, either, falling in love with whomever he acts so closely, one of several reasons why he doesn't want to get back on that side of the set. He'd much rather write his poetry, sing his songs... anything, really, but open himself up to the idea that true love may yet exist for him.
He slings another beer back. Tonight, he doesn't have to pretend to be anything more than what he is, a loser looking to get drunk to ease the pain he always feels. He had to sign divorce papers today. He never should have married the girl. He almost ruined her life too, all because he couldn't keep from looking toward another, following her for as long as he could and aching to follow her still, no matter how hard he tried not to. He's a failure. He has nothing to offer her but to bring her down, but still he fell. Still he would've done anything to stay in her shadow, still would. He's a lost lamb, a big-eyed puppy dog, even when it comes to the idea of love.
Why? he wonders, running tired fingers through curly locks of brown hair that are beginning to gray. Why can't he just let her go? Why can't he just be a normal man, a normal actor, and not fall into the trap that is the figment of love? Love doesn't exist. People don't choose one another because of the love they feel. They make good pairings that are meant to help them survive a cruel world that would eat their very souls instead. They choose mates based on what they need to survive and achieve their own dreams, and he has nothing to offer anyone like that for all he can offer is love.
He feels eyes on him, and he knows they're watching him. They're always watching him. The paparazzi are always waiting for him to make a mistake, and the younger starlets... and his slew of fans... they're always waiting for him to open up, to invite them in in a moment of weakness, to surrender and admit that, just like they're hero, he longs for love. He does long for love, but he can't offer them anything but more failed dreams, as was the case with both his ex-wives.
He should just give up, James knows. He should surrender to the knowledge he's had his entire life: he cannot amount a thing. Why, the only reason why his character ever amounted to more than a rich, poncy-ass mother's boy was because he was turned, turned by a woman who thought she wanted him and then dropped him for the next, biggest, baddest thing. She had been on him, because she'd thought he was cool, not for any other reason.
It's the same reason his fans want him. They don't want him for himself. They know nothing of him himself. They may think they do, but they don't. No matter how many articles they've read, interviews they've watched, or lines they've memorized, they cannot know him for they've never met the real him. It's also useless trying to date a fan, because even if they think they understand that they do not know him, even if they believe they've opened themselves up to learning his real persona, his real failures and intricacies, they're always savagely disappointed when they find out he has nothing to offer them but his heart.
James scoffs into his drink and tosses back another one. Magical creatures don't exist. Magic doesn't exist. It's fun to believe, but he knows better, has since he was a boy, just as he knows he is a failure. He can sing. He can dance. He can seduce an entire crowd into believing in his character and mimic so many voices, but in the end, when the cameras stop rolling and the curtains draw closed, nobody ever wants the man who remains. Nobody ever wants him, just the character he played for well over ten years.
It was an amazing time, the best in his life, but it still came to an end as all things must. It still came to an end and left him, abruptly, all by himself again except for scores of people who would rather call him by a name that isn't even his and refuse to accept the harsh facts of reality that he's known for ages. The show was only pretend. His character, and his love, were only pretend. When you pull away everything else, he is what remains, and nobody wants him for himself.
At least they haven't bothered him tonight, he thinks, downing yet another shot. They've taken enough pity on him -- the idea that it might be respect never plays in his head -- to leave him alone so far this night. Usually they try all sorts of things to garner his attention. He's had panties and keys thrown at him, even had a rather unsightly bruise for a while from where a metal key once smacked his temple as it fell onto his stage. He's had dinners, rounds, and hotel rooms bought for him without ever seeing the women who bought them until after the fact. He's had people try to buy his affection and intimacy in every bloody way imaginable.
It's almost enough to make a man willing to give up singing, but his songs are all he's got left. Maybe he shouldn't share them with the world. Maybe he shouldn't stay in that accursed limelight. But he has little choice if he's to make a living in this world. He can't hold down a mundane job. Why, once he tried being a clerk in a grocery store and found that every woman in the town was coming to be in his line, staunchly refusing anyone else! Another time, he tried washing cars, and a woman tried to put him in her trunk!
He shakes his head and returns to his drink, knowing he needs to slow down before he makes tomorrow's tabloids in a very ugly way. Another drink suddenly appears, and he looks up questioningly.
"Don't look at me," the barkeep says, throwing a towel over his shoulder. "Lady comes in every night, but I've never seen her buy anybody else a drink. Never seen her in here with anybody else either."
He looks down the long bar and into a pair of beautiful eyes. She has nice breasts too, he notices with a flick of his dark blue eyes. But he doesn't need another headache. He doesn't need another failure. She opens her mouth and smiles at him, showing a hint of... fang? "Oh Bloody Hell!" He slams the drink down. "Not another one!"
They're always pretend. They're all only pretend.
"Hey, man," the bartender says, "anybody else'd be happy to be in your pants tonight."
"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, preparing to turn her down and searching his tired mind for the words to do so gently. There's no need in hurting the poor thing.
As she slides up to him, however, it's as though the very air shifts. "They're real," she purrs in... Is that a Romanian accent? he wonders bleakly. Dear Lord, is she really one of them?! "Want to touch them?"
He glances from her face to her breasts that are popping out of her low bodice, then back to her face again. His mouth opens to decline her, but she speaks first, showing him, this time, a good bit of pearly white teeth. She must be one who had the dentist do her fangs, because they really do look real. "No," he says. He slams another drink down his throat before turning and grabbing her wrist. She looks up at him questioningly, but he's the one who's suddenly at a loss for words. He presses harder, but he still can't find a pulse.
He looks at the woman before him. She's beautiful, but she can't be real. "You cannot find a pulse," she tells him, whispering, "because I don't have one. Now follow me." She stands and moves from the bar with all the graceful, powerful, and seductive movements of a giant cat. Just like a panther or a large tiger, she's bound to eat him before the night is out.
James sighs and downs one last drink. "Aw, what the Hell?" he mutters. At least this should be an interesting night, if nothing else. As he follows her, though, he remembers again how much of a failure he is and the divorce papers he signed just that day. Ah, well, he's a failure anyway. Might as well at least try to enjoy it, and the woman leading him away certainly looks like the type to help him get through another night in a place that isn't Sunnydale, California, no matter how much he'd like it to be.
The End
Dedicated To: Both my Js, James and Jordan <3 And to Amy, who made the request.
Fandom: RPF (Real People Fic)
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: James
Rating: PG/K+
Summary: He's a believer, but not much more.
Word Count: 1,842
Written For: Amy, aka Asphaltcowgrrl, who made the request: James - magical creatures & seduction & intimacy. Also fills 1 Million Words A to Z: B (Believer) and (I *think*, still gotta check with the mod) 100 Fandom Hell
Warnings: RPF
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
He's always been a believer. That is really all he's ever been, no matter what the world thinks. They see him as an actor, as a singer, as one of the most popular male stars on television. They see him as a man lost in her shadow. They see him as the enemy to the pairing they want for their favorite televised heroine. They see him as anything more than what he really is, a believer... and a loser.
He refuses to bury his head in his hands tonight, however. Doing so will not get him anywhere. The show is over. The curtain has fallen. But he must go on. He must always find a way to go on, which is what's brought him to this bar, this little, dingy hole in the road that reminds him of another bar and another time. He wonders if she ever thinks of that bar. He wonders if she ever thinks of the little people who filled it.
He doesn't have to wonder if she thinks of him. He knows she does. The moments they shared, the pretend kisses and the not-so pretend ones. They affected them both deeply, scared her even, he believes, and for good reason. He has nothing to offer her. She chose a better man, one her age, one who could supply her with both her dreams of raising children and raising her own star. He would have only brought her down. That's all he does: he only ever brings them down.
Yet, still, he believes. He tries so hard not to. He has no reason to, and even if love exists, there's nothing out there for someone like him. There's no one out there for someone like him. Isn't two failed marriages more than enough proof that he doesn't deserve love, that he doesn't deserve a good woman? He's a scumbag. He knows it, but he can't rise above that title.
He wishes he could, but he can't. No matter how hard he struggles, he's always going to be labeled for thinking with the thing between his pants. He can't help it that he's a romantic. He can't seem to help, either, falling in love with whomever he acts so closely, one of several reasons why he doesn't want to get back on that side of the set. He'd much rather write his poetry, sing his songs... anything, really, but open himself up to the idea that true love may yet exist for him.
He slings another beer back. Tonight, he doesn't have to pretend to be anything more than what he is, a loser looking to get drunk to ease the pain he always feels. He had to sign divorce papers today. He never should have married the girl. He almost ruined her life too, all because he couldn't keep from looking toward another, following her for as long as he could and aching to follow her still, no matter how hard he tried not to. He's a failure. He has nothing to offer her but to bring her down, but still he fell. Still he would've done anything to stay in her shadow, still would. He's a lost lamb, a big-eyed puppy dog, even when it comes to the idea of love.
Why? he wonders, running tired fingers through curly locks of brown hair that are beginning to gray. Why can't he just let her go? Why can't he just be a normal man, a normal actor, and not fall into the trap that is the figment of love? Love doesn't exist. People don't choose one another because of the love they feel. They make good pairings that are meant to help them survive a cruel world that would eat their very souls instead. They choose mates based on what they need to survive and achieve their own dreams, and he has nothing to offer anyone like that for all he can offer is love.
He feels eyes on him, and he knows they're watching him. They're always watching him. The paparazzi are always waiting for him to make a mistake, and the younger starlets... and his slew of fans... they're always waiting for him to open up, to invite them in in a moment of weakness, to surrender and admit that, just like they're hero, he longs for love. He does long for love, but he can't offer them anything but more failed dreams, as was the case with both his ex-wives.
He should just give up, James knows. He should surrender to the knowledge he's had his entire life: he cannot amount a thing. Why, the only reason why his character ever amounted to more than a rich, poncy-ass mother's boy was because he was turned, turned by a woman who thought she wanted him and then dropped him for the next, biggest, baddest thing. She had been on him, because she'd thought he was cool, not for any other reason.
It's the same reason his fans want him. They don't want him for himself. They know nothing of him himself. They may think they do, but they don't. No matter how many articles they've read, interviews they've watched, or lines they've memorized, they cannot know him for they've never met the real him. It's also useless trying to date a fan, because even if they think they understand that they do not know him, even if they believe they've opened themselves up to learning his real persona, his real failures and intricacies, they're always savagely disappointed when they find out he has nothing to offer them but his heart.
James scoffs into his drink and tosses back another one. Magical creatures don't exist. Magic doesn't exist. It's fun to believe, but he knows better, has since he was a boy, just as he knows he is a failure. He can sing. He can dance. He can seduce an entire crowd into believing in his character and mimic so many voices, but in the end, when the cameras stop rolling and the curtains draw closed, nobody ever wants the man who remains. Nobody ever wants him, just the character he played for well over ten years.
It was an amazing time, the best in his life, but it still came to an end as all things must. It still came to an end and left him, abruptly, all by himself again except for scores of people who would rather call him by a name that isn't even his and refuse to accept the harsh facts of reality that he's known for ages. The show was only pretend. His character, and his love, were only pretend. When you pull away everything else, he is what remains, and nobody wants him for himself.
At least they haven't bothered him tonight, he thinks, downing yet another shot. They've taken enough pity on him -- the idea that it might be respect never plays in his head -- to leave him alone so far this night. Usually they try all sorts of things to garner his attention. He's had panties and keys thrown at him, even had a rather unsightly bruise for a while from where a metal key once smacked his temple as it fell onto his stage. He's had dinners, rounds, and hotel rooms bought for him without ever seeing the women who bought them until after the fact. He's had people try to buy his affection and intimacy in every bloody way imaginable.
It's almost enough to make a man willing to give up singing, but his songs are all he's got left. Maybe he shouldn't share them with the world. Maybe he shouldn't stay in that accursed limelight. But he has little choice if he's to make a living in this world. He can't hold down a mundane job. Why, once he tried being a clerk in a grocery store and found that every woman in the town was coming to be in his line, staunchly refusing anyone else! Another time, he tried washing cars, and a woman tried to put him in her trunk!
He shakes his head and returns to his drink, knowing he needs to slow down before he makes tomorrow's tabloids in a very ugly way. Another drink suddenly appears, and he looks up questioningly.
"Don't look at me," the barkeep says, throwing a towel over his shoulder. "Lady comes in every night, but I've never seen her buy anybody else a drink. Never seen her in here with anybody else either."
He looks down the long bar and into a pair of beautiful eyes. She has nice breasts too, he notices with a flick of his dark blue eyes. But he doesn't need another headache. He doesn't need another failure. She opens her mouth and smiles at him, showing a hint of... fang? "Oh Bloody Hell!" He slams the drink down. "Not another one!"
They're always pretend. They're all only pretend.
"Hey, man," the bartender says, "anybody else'd be happy to be in your pants tonight."
"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, preparing to turn her down and searching his tired mind for the words to do so gently. There's no need in hurting the poor thing.
As she slides up to him, however, it's as though the very air shifts. "They're real," she purrs in... Is that a Romanian accent? he wonders bleakly. Dear Lord, is she really one of them?! "Want to touch them?"
He glances from her face to her breasts that are popping out of her low bodice, then back to her face again. His mouth opens to decline her, but she speaks first, showing him, this time, a good bit of pearly white teeth. She must be one who had the dentist do her fangs, because they really do look real. "No," he says. He slams another drink down his throat before turning and grabbing her wrist. She looks up at him questioningly, but he's the one who's suddenly at a loss for words. He presses harder, but he still can't find a pulse.
He looks at the woman before him. She's beautiful, but she can't be real. "You cannot find a pulse," she tells him, whispering, "because I don't have one. Now follow me." She stands and moves from the bar with all the graceful, powerful, and seductive movements of a giant cat. Just like a panther or a large tiger, she's bound to eat him before the night is out.
James sighs and downs one last drink. "Aw, what the Hell?" he mutters. At least this should be an interesting night, if nothing else. As he follows her, though, he remembers again how much of a failure he is and the divorce papers he signed just that day. Ah, well, he's a failure anyway. Might as well at least try to enjoy it, and the woman leading him away certainly looks like the type to help him get through another night in a place that isn't Sunnydale, California, no matter how much he'd like it to be.
The End
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Date: 2022-08-19 08:54 pm (UTC)