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lardguz · 3 years

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All You Can Eat Bluff-et

WHEW. This took me a lot longer to write than I anticipated because I got kind of stuck near the end (just like a certain fatass lawyer in this one, hehe) but YEAH. Wow! Hope you guys like gay lawyer feeder/feedee relationships!

Phoenix Wright sat on the couch in his office, formerly known as the Weight & Co. Law Offices, blankly staring at the TV screen in front of him. It had been two weeks since he was found presenting forged evidence to the court and subsequently stripped of his attorney’s badge and defense attorney title. Since then he’d not really had much to do, not being used to being unemployed for the first time in years. He had cleaned the office from top to bottom multiple times in the first few days following his sudden dismissal, trying to keep his mind off the creeping existential dread. His friends had stopped by frequently to check on him when they heard the news, and he put on a reassuring smile to them all, but now? The apathy was beginning to set in. Phoenix sat there, wearing just a dress shirt, an undone tie, and some slacks, watching the news talking yet again about his disbarment, with his hand rummaging absentmindedly around in a bowl of potato chips. He kept bringing handfuls of the crunchy snacks up to his mouth, loudly chewing on them without realizing how much he was eating.

Phoenix had been eating like this for as long as he could remember, but without constant cases keeping him on the move, and all the time in the world to just sit on the couch and mindlessly watch TV, his snacking habits were starting to show on his body. His middle was starting to protrude just the tiniest bit, slightly straining the button nearest his tummy on his dress shirt. As his fingers scraped the bottom of the bowl with nothing left to eat in it, Phoenix got up off the couch and turned off the TV. At that precise moment, he heard the familiar Steel Samurai ringtone that his former assistant, Maya, had begged him to put on his cell phone echoing from across the office. Trotting over to his messy desk, he picked up the phone. “Wright and Co. Law Offi—er, wait. No. Hey, this is Phoenix Wright speaking?”

“Wright, I’m outside your office door,” spoke a familiar voice with a slight British accent to it, “Open up. How long have you been hiding away in there, anyways?”

Phoenix audibly sighed. “Just a couple of days, Miles. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right over.” He hung up and made his way over to the office door, hastily running his hand through his hair to make sure it wasn’t a mess.

There outside his door stood Miles Edgeworth, the famed prosecutor, long-time rival to Phoenix Wright, and his boyfriend. The silver-haired man had bags in each hand which seemed to be very heavy. Phoenix leaned in to kiss his partner and then welcomed him into his office. Edgeworth looked around at the shabby state of the room, empty snack bags littering the floor, and huffed in mild disgust. “Really, Wright, you live like this? Have you eaten nothing but garbage junk food at all the past week?”

Phoenix rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, you know, I was always more of an art guy in college than a cooking guy? Ehehehe…”

Miles groaned and dropped the heavy bags onto the couch, sitting down next to them. “Well, it is a good thing I brought you some real food then, Wright. Here, come sit next to me. I’ll show you what I’ve brought.” The well-dressed prosecutor patted the cushion beside him gently. Phoenix lowered himself down next to his boyfriend slowly and looked into his cool gray eyes curiously. Edgeworth opened one of the bags and pulled out a few plastic containers of some sort of soup. “This is homemade potato and leek soup, with lots of heavy cream. Very nourishing. It’s still warm, I made it just before I left to come over here. And this,” he said as he opened the other bag, revealing a single much larger container, “is a devil’s food cake. I also made this myself, but I baked it last night. The frosting is also homemade.”

Edgeworth popped the lid off of one of the containers of soup and, pulling a spoon out of the bag, dipped it into the bowl and lifted it to Phoenix’s mouth. Phoenix leaned back a little in confusion, stammering. “I-I am perfectly capable of feeding myself, Miles! You don’t have to—”

He was cut off abruptly as the spoon was inserted into his open mouth. The soup, with beautiful, bright flavors and creamy deliciousness, practically melted in his mouth. His cheeks flushed crimson as his eyes met his boyfriend’s, who lifted a finger to his own lips in a shushing gesture. “You have done so much for me, Wright. Now it’s my turn to take care of you. Understand?” Phoenix nodded quickly, still a little dazed, and Miles removed the spoon, refilling it from the bowl and bringing it to his lips again. This went on and on, as Miles emptied one container of soup and moved onto the other two, until there was no more left to feed to his lonely boyfriend. Phoenix belched softly, rubbing his distended belly, which strained against the buttons of his shirt even more now that he’d eaten essentially a whole pot of soup by himself. Miles rubbed his swollen tummy sympathetically before leaning over to whisper in his ear. “I hope you still have room in there, Wright, because you still have to eat dessert…”

Removing the rich chocolate cake from its container, Edgeworth cut off a large piece and held it to his boyfriend’s lips, encouraging Phoenix to take a big bite of the delicious confection. He opened his mouth wide and took a much larger bite than Miles had anticipated, taking about a quarter of the slice in one gulp. The two men continued in this manner, the prim and proper prosecutor delicately feeding slices of the moist chocolate cake to his now very stuffed boyfriend until no more cake remained. Phoenix undid the buttons on his shirt to allow his strained gut some relief, the orb of flesh firm and hard to the touch. Edgeworth gave his boyfriend some gentle belly rubs to try and ease his aching tummy before leaving for the night, promising to be back again tomorrow with more proper food to keep the unemployed former lawyer well-fed.

A year had passed since the fateful trial that had left the legendary Phoenix Wright unemployed, and not many people had seen much of the former lawyer since. Only his closest friends, and the occasional food delivery person, had been in contact with Mr. Wright since his disbarment. The one-time master of courtroom bluffs was sitting on the couch in his former office as he did every day now, a small stack of takeout boxes stacked on the coffee table in front of him. Anyone who knew Phoenix Wright in his lawyer days would hardly recognize the man on the couch as that legendary defense attorney now. Phoenix was wearing a baggy hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, having long since outgrown his old tailored suits from when he still practiced law. The loose, stretchy clothing he preferred to wear at present didn’t leave much to the imagination despite not being form-fitting yet. Phoenix’s chest, once a decently defined pair of pecs, had blossomed into a pudgy pair of moobs that even his XXL hoodie couldn’t hide, and his growing gut sat comfortably in his lap, the bottom of his softening tummy rolls peeking out from the bottom of his hoodie whenever he stretched or moved his arms. Speaking of which, Phoenix’s arms were also noticeably jiggly with fat, with rolls that bunched up at his shoulders whenever he reached upwards. He also had a nice, plush pair of love handles that oozed into a muffintop over the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, which his boyfriend Miles Edgeworth had taken quite a fancy to grabbing ahold of whenever they kissed. None of his weight gain on his upper half even held a candle to how his lower half looked, though. Living such a sedentary life for the past year since his disbarment had sent quite a bit of fat to his thighs and rear end. Phoenix’s ass cheeks were enormous, giving him a beautiful pear shape whether he sat his fat ass on the couch or stood up to waddle to the door to get food delivery. Each round cheek was roughly the side of a pillow, and just as soft. His thighs were also thickening at an astounding rate, each one roughly wide enough to get him stuck in some smaller chairs. When he’d weighed himself earlier that week, Phoenix saw that he’d surpassed 350 pounds. If he had still been a lawyer, that number would have stunned and horrified him, but now? He didn’t really mind at all.

The tubby former lawyer scratched at the stubble on his double chin, leaning forward to grab one of his takeout containers stacked in front of him, when the doorbell rang. Phoenix lowered his arm and instead hoisted himself off the couch, his chubby stomach wobbling underneath his sweatshirt as he did so. He walked over to the door to the office, his meaty thighs rubbing against each other uncomfortably as he did so. God, I’m probably going to have to start taking bigger steps when I walk soon, Phoenix thought to himself as he reached the door. He peered through the peep hole, expecting to see Maya or Edgeworth or someone more familiar, but instead he saw a face he never thought he’d see again. Or, rather, the lower half of a face, since the upper half was covered by a very familiar visor. Phoenix hastily opened the door and stepped outside to confront the visitor.

“Godot?!” he shouted, “How did you get here? Aren’t you supposed to be—”

“In prison?” the white-haired man laughed. “Yeah, well, as it turns out, murder in defense of another isn’t a death sentence. Your pretty little boyfriend got my sentence reduced for “good behavior” and “health reasons”. He also said I should stop by and say hey.” The former prosecutor glanced up and down at Phoenix’s body, chuckling dryly. “Good to see you’ve been taking real good care of yourself, Phoenix, despite everything that’s happened to you.”

Phoenix gulped, subconsciously scratching at the bottom of his overfed gut which flopped over the waistband of his sweatpants. “So, you heard about… that?” Godot nodded, and Phoenix sighed softly. “Figures. Yeah, I got played for a fool. Given forged evidence to present in court. I’m sorry for letting you down so soon after I proved to you that I was worthy to follow in Mia’s—”

“Trite!” Godot snarled. Phoenix yelped and reflexively covered his face, expecting to feel a scalding cup of coffee smack into his face upon hearing his old rival’s nickname for him. He peeked around his fingers to see the masked man rummaging around in a plastic bag that was slung over his arm. That was the first time Phoenix noticed that Godot was carrying multiple plastic bags. The older man clicked his tongue decisively and pulled out a small white box, marked with a logo like a coffee cup with three red lines going horizontally across it. He held it out to Phoenix.

“What’s in this?” Phoenix asked curiously as he reached a hand out to take the box. Godot stayed silent, so Phoenix opened the little package. Inside was a large pastry, a cream tart shaped like an attorney’s badge. Phoenix looked down at the confection, then glanced back up at Godot, a look of confusion plastered on his chubby face. The masked man’s eyes couldn’t be seen, but his mouth broke into a sly grin upon seeing the disgraced attorney’s expression. “I needed something to do after I got out of prison, so I decided why not do what I was always born to do and open a nice little coffee shop? We’ve been a massive success, and your prettyboy boyfriend told me you’d been really enjoying sweet stuff lately, so I decided I’d bring a little taste of Café Armando to your office.” He lifted his bag-laden arms to properly show off just how much he’d brought with him. “Got a little something of everything we make back there for you, Wright. Mind if I come in?”

Phoenix swallowed heavily, his mouth watering already at just the prospect of gorging himself on fresh-made pastries. He nodded shakily, unable to form words with his mouth in his dazed state. Godot shouldered past the overweight former lawyer, heading further into the office. He chuckled loudly at the stack of takeout boxes on the coffee table. “Looks like you already got plenty to eat here, Phoenix, but that’s fine, I’ll put my stuff on this side of the couch for you.” Godot dropped the bags of baked goods onto one half of the couch, leaving Phoenix with the other half all to himself.

The portly man sat back down on the couch cushion, his lardy ass spreading out under him to take up the entire couch cushion. He made to reach for one of the plastic bags and grab a box from within, but Godot slapped his hand away. He waggled a finger in Phoenix’s face. “Ah ah ah, that’s not how we’re doing this, Wright. Your man had very specific instructions for me. So you just sit there and look pretty while I handle the hard stuff, tubby.” Godot prodded a finger into Phoenix’s chubby gut to emphasize his point before reaching into one of the bags and removing the box that contained the cream tart from earlier. The older man then swung his legs over either of Phoenix’s thick thighs and straddled his rounded gut, leaning on it lightly while pressing the cream tart to the scruffy man’s lips. Phoenix eagerly devoured the tart in just a few bites, waiting impatiently for the next confection.

The two men continued their feeding session for hours, Godot getting more and more forceful the more Phoenix ate. His fat cheeks and double chins were covered in crumbs and cream, and a few bits of pastries had fallen onto the front of his hoodie, which was now riding up heavily on his distended gut. The soft layer of fat cushioning the outside of the enormous orb was stretched far by the amount of food Godot was stuffing into his former rival. Phoenix’s mouth was constantly full, every time he finished chewing on a pastry another was prompt shoved into his tiring mouth. Godot growled taunts in a low tone the entire time, calling him a fat pig and commenting on how far gone he was after just a year of unemployment. Finally, as he reached into the last bag to grab another pastry to shove into his adversary’s mouth, Godot’s long fingers closed around empty air. Turning his gaze back towards Phoenix’s exhausted, messy face, he grunted in annoyance. “Well, I guess that’s the end of my fun for now, Wright. But before I leave, I got one last thing I need from you…” Before Phoenix could muster a response, Godot leaned heavily against his bloated gut and wrapped his arms around the stuffed man’s chubby shoulders, planting his lips against Phoenix’s cream-covered mouth. Phoenix let out a muffled noise of surprise before melting into the kiss, unable to deny his long-standing attraction for the mysterious masked Godot back from his lawyer days. The two passionately made out for another few minutes, Godot’s sharp teeth digging into Phoenix’s lower lip occasionally. Finally, they parted, and Godot stood up, slapping Phoenix’s engorged stomach as he made to leave the room. Phoenix sat there in a daze for a few moments before the inevitable food coma washed over him, lulling him into a slumber while his stuffed gut digested its feast.

Morning light filtered through the blinds of the former Wright & Co. Law Offices’ windows, shining directly into Phoenix’s eyes and waking him up. The disgraced lawyer yawned and stretched as he leaned back on his couch, where he had fallen asleep sitting up the night before, just as he did every night these days. It was now a little over four years since the once-famous Phoenix Wright had been stripped of his attorney’s badge, and that time had not been kind to his once-slim and fit body. As he yawned, his fat cheeks caused his eyes to squish shut entirely, and his triple chin creased into a quadruple chin. His neck was buried under rolls of fat, showing no separation between chins and neck anymore. His hoodie, once slightly too big for him, was now several sizes too small, and yet he kept wearing it. The only thing it covered was his oversized moobs, which stretched the elastic fabric nearly to its limits just from their girth alone. The sleeves of said hoodie were starting to rip in places on the seams, his pillow-sized fat-coated biceps poking through the little tears in diamond-shaped bubbles that widened as he stretched his arms above his head. Phoenix’s stomach, while nowhere near his biggest asset, was still impressively large, completely visible due to his hoodie not even coming close to covering it now. His gut split into two distinct rolls that were separated by the fold where the upper roll collapsed over his belly button. The lower roll pooled in his lap like a liquid, settling between his overstuffed thighs while also overflowing over the outer edges of them, and flopping over the edges of his knees slightly. His love handles had also become a multi-layered deal, each one soft and squishy and overflowing out of his strained waistband like an overcooked souffle.

Still, due to his sedentary lifestyle since losing his job four years ago, Phoenix Wright was incredibly bottom-heavy. All those months of planting his fat ass on his couch and doing nothing but eating crappy takeout food, sleeping, and watching Steel Samurai reruns on his TV, with the only exercise he got being walking to the door to bring in all the bags of food he got delivered every couple of hours, truly did a number on the lower half of his body. Each of his enormous shapeless asscheeks took up one half of the couch, the cushions completely flattened underneath his incredible weight. The burgeoning bulk of his massive ass strained the fabric of his once-huge sweatpants, with one steadily growing tear going right down the middle of his butt, which would reveal his boxers to anyone behind him if his ass weren’t firmly sat down on his overburdened couch at almost all hours of the day. His thighs were almost as thick as tree trunks, making his pants look like overfilled piping bags, with little rips forming on the seams where his dimpled cellulite poked through. His thighs were so fat that no mater how far apart he spread them while sitting, they pooled under him in a way that they were always touching. The fat from his thighs was also starting to fold over onto his knees, making it gradually harder to bend them when he stood up to get his food deliveries. Phoenix was also starting to notice that his meaty calves were starting to get so fat that his ankles were fusing with the mass of fat that was the rest of his flabby leg rolls. All in all, the former legal legend was nigh unrecognizable to anyone who hadn’t seen him in the past four years and known about his decline into pure sedentary gluttony.

Phoenix felt a buzzing coming from the pocket of his hoodie that currently rested right between his massive pillow-sized moobs, straining his fat arms against his squishy chest. The sheer size of his chest made it hard for his already-overburdened arms to reach things in front of him, especially when it was something so close to his body. Eventually he managed to reach his pocked and pull out his phone and saw that the last of the deliveries had been made, so Phoenix swung his bulk off the couch and began waddling to the office’s door. His soft, flabby gut hung almost like an apron in front of his legs, the lower half of it dangling halfway down his couch-crushing thighs, slapping against them loudly with every heavy step he took. The obese man opened the door and gathered up the piles of takeout containers in his flabby arms, his wobbling gut just barely brushing the floor as he leaned down to pick up the precious packages. He knew he had a double date tonight with his husband and boyfriend, but Phoenix just couldn’t wait that long to have his greedy gut properly filled. He began steadily waddling his way back to his old worn out couch, his shapeless orbs that were his enormous ass cheeks jiggling hypnotically the entire time.

Phoenix slowly lowered his incredible bulk back down onto his sofa, oblivious to the strained groaning of the metal frame beneath his prodigious rear end. He deposited his delicious cargo onto the coffee table in front of his couch and leaned forward, his double-layered tummy splitting into even more rolls as he strained to reach one of the roughly thirty or so containers of food. He grabbed it in his pudgy fingers and sat back, sighing in relief as he opened the styrofoam box. Inside was a triple decker cheeseburger with extra cheese and bacon, with extra fries. Phoenix always gorged on burgers on Wednesdays, it was an old tradition of his and Maya’s to get burgers on Wednesdays nights after working a long case. Now that she was too busy training to be the next Master of Kurain Village, Phoenix opted to just stuff himself with extra large burgers on his own instead. Grasping the massive burger between his sausage-sized fingers, he lifted it to his mouth and took a huge bite, moaning in joy as the flavors of the juicy burger burst over his taste buds. A little bit of grease dribbled down his scruff chins, but Phoenix didn’t even notice. He continued devouring the triple cheeseburger with practiced ease, demolishing the entire thing and all the fries in record time before moving onto the next container, and the next, and the next…

The former lawyer ate and ate for hours, completely lost in the decadence of his burger feast, each one just as fattening and greasy as the last. Phoenix was completely ignorant to the pounds he was packing on in his fast food haze, too busy stuffing his flabby face with his greasy “breakfast”. His fatty arm rolls grew thicker and thicker, ripping the seams of his hoodie’s sleeves to shreds after just an hour of gorging himself. Tears in the stretchy fabric began to form between his massive breasts, each one straining the overburdened sweatshirt in opposite directions. His soft, flabby gut gurgled as it slowly seeped further outwards, filling his entire oversized lap and overflowing over his legs entirely. His enormous ass and titanic thigh rolls finally won the battle against his formerly-loose sweatpants, a series of loud ripping noises and the twang of splitting elastic signalling their end as waves of lard erupted out of them, his meaty love handles and wobbling cheeks resting comfortably on the arm rests of his overtaxed couch as his oak tree sized thigh rolls dangled over the edge of the sofa cushions.

Finally, after just a few hours, Phoenix finished devouring the last of his burger feast, belching into his closed fist after swallowing the last bite. The man lazily looked down at himself, realizing all he could see was his bare tits and the top roll of his gut. Then he felt his soft fatty flesh covering the entire couch, overflowing over the edges, and it hit him: Phoenix had officially grown fat enough to fill his two-person couch just by himself. As that realization was sinking in, he heard a loud noise, like metal bending, and his heart sank. Trying desperately to lower his sagging lard-covered arms to his sides to hoist himself off of the ticking time bomb that was his couch, Phoenix realized he was now so fat that his arms couldn’t bend right at the elbow anymore, his rolls of arm fat folding over the joint and making it essentially useless. Not only that, but he couldn’t even get his arms down to his sides anymore because of his beanbag-sized moobs and layers of side rolls getting in the way. Well, that just leaves me with one option, Phoenix thought to himself as he planted his chubby feet on the floor in front of him. He began slowly leaning forward, trying to inch his way upwards and off of his sofa, but after a few minutes a cold realization dawned on him: his enormously fat ass was stuck between the armrests of the couch. He’d heard of people getting stuck in a dining chair before, but an entire loveseat?! This was ridiculous! Phoenix didn’t have long to think about how incredibly obese he had gotten, as the couch let out one last groaning metallic shriek and gave out under his unbelievable weight. Phoenix let out a yelp as he plummeted backward to the floor with a resounding boom that sent the entire office quaking. Thankfully he had a lot of extra padding to cushion the fall, and he lay there groaning, his flabby shoulders and back rolls pushing his multiple chins and drooping jowls up around his face. Well, at least Miles and Godot will be here in a few hours, Phoenix thought to himself. I may as well sleep off those burgers while I wait for them. The gigantic man yawned loudly as he fell asleep, pinned beneath his own hundreds of pounds of lard, snoring loudly the entire time.

Phoenix woke with a start as he felt something laying on top of his squishy chest. He opened his eyes and was greeted with the familiar red glow of his boyfriend Godot’s visor inches from his fat-wreathed face. Standing over him and looking mildly amused was his husband, Edgeworth, holding a few bags of food in his arms. The chief prosecutor tssked softly as he shook his head at his obese partner. “Really, Wright, I’ve been warning you about that couch for months now, and yet you kept ignoring me. Now look where that got you, stuck laying on your back, pinned by your own greedy ways.”

Godot laughed softly as he leaned forward to kiss Phoenix’s fat lips. “He has a point, Phoenix, you really have let yourself go. You’ve become quite the hungry little hog, haven’t you?” The masked man grabbed heaping handfuls of Phoenix’s flabby jowls as he shoved his mouth against the helpless former lawyer, making out with him with such an intense ferocity that Phoenix didn’t really know what hit him. Their lips parted with a whimper from Phoenix, craving more, but it was cut off by Edgeworth sticking a sticky cream-filled donut in his husband’s greedy mouth. “There will be plenty of time for that later, dear, but for now, I’m sure you must be starving. Let us take care of that little issue first before we get you up off that floor and find out just how big a butterball you’ve become.” Miles passed the rest of the box of donuts to Godot, who was still laying on top of Phoenix’s enormous bulk. He positioned the box on Phoenix’s chins for easier stuffing access and began pressing the fried sweet delights into his mouth one after another, barely giving him any time to swallow one before another was fed to him. Miles sat on the floor beside Phoenix, leaning against his pillowy arm rolls as he began stuffing his husband’s face with large fancy cupcakes, frosting and crumbs flecking his droopy jowls and his many stubble-covered chins.

The tender dual-feeding session was over quickly, with two feeders and one voracious feedee making short work of the boxes of baked goods. Edgeworth leaned over his morbidly obese husband’s arm fat to kiss his round overstuffed cheek. “All finished? Then we should probably get you off the floor now and see how much you weigh, hm?” Godot whined from where he still lay on top of Phoenix’s mounds of man-tits. “Aww, but I’m having fun up here! He’s so soft and fun to pinch and lay on now “ The masked man grinned mischievously. “Plus, it’s so fun to see from above just how far the mighty Phoenix Wright has fallen.” Miles gave Phoenix’s flabby gut a hearty shove, sending the entire expanse of his husband’s fat-swaddled body wobbling so hard that it knocked Godot off of his chest. The two men each grabbed one of Phoenix’s lard-coated wrists and heaved, taking a solid five minutes to get the jiggling mound of pure fat that was once the best defense attorney around back on his feet. Edgeworth then led the pear-shaped butterball to the scale he’d bought last year, watching the numbers go up and up. They finally stopped, and Edgeworth read the display out loud. “Seven hundred and sixty-two pounds. Good god, Wright, you really have gotten enormous.” He pulled Phoenix into a hug, squishing into his pillowy soft body. “I’m so proud of you, dear.” Godot grabbed a fistful of his boyfriend’s chair-sized ass cheeks appraisingly, before grunting in approval. “Yeah, I’d say you’ve become a pretty prize hog, Phoenix. Good work. Looks great on you.”

The two much smaller men escorted their doughy partner as he lumbered his way back to the broken sofa. Phoenix was breathing heavily, worn out from just waddling over to the scale and back, but the couch was completely busted. He had nowhere to sit now. Edgeworth patted his squishy shoulders reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Phoenix. I can get you a special reinforced couch delivered tomorrow. But more importantly, I have a job opportunity that came my way for you.”

Phoenix looked at his husband quizzically. “Job opportunity? What kind?” Miles chuckled. “Well, it involves a lot of eating as a front, but… how good are you at playing poker?”

A young brown haired lawyer was pacing around the defendant lobby of the courthouse. Today was his first ever trial as a defense attorney, and his client was nowhere to be seen. The chubby man was very nervous, loudly muttering to himself in a voice that had clearly been driven hoarse from practicing all night the night before. “It’s fine, Apollo! Everything is just fine! Your client is probably just stuck in traffic, that’s all! He’ll be here in time for the trial! It’s fine! You’re fine! I’m fine!” He took a deep breath and let loose a yell that could probably be heard from across the entire courthouse. “I’M APOLLO JUSTICE, AND I’M FINE!!!” Breathing heavily after such an incredibly loud scream, Apollo wiped his forehead with the back of a pudgy arm and walked over to one of the benches in the lobby, collapsing onto it gratefully. It was then that the rotund young man noticed the array of tables on the other side of the defendant lobby, each one piled high with mountains of food. “What the…” he mumbled to himself, “Who is all that food for…? Is- Is that for me?” He hoisted himself off the bench and walked over to the tables, his fat tummy growling hungrily at the sight of all that delicious food. Apollo was by no means a skinny man, having been well acquainted with stress eating ever since he started law school. Reaching out for a cream-filled donut with one chubby hand, he stopped when he heard noises coming from out in the hall. Loud noises, like a dinosaur was stomping around out there. Curious to know the source, Apollo turned around at the exact same moment the door to the defendant lobby opened. His eyes were greeted with the sight of none other than the Chief Prosecutor himself, Miles Edgeworth. Apollo yelped in shock and bowed his head respectfully, but Edgeworth stopped him. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Justice. I’m not here on prosecutor business. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, though. I’ve heard much about you from your mentor, Mr. Gavin.”

Apollo’s chubby cheeks were bright crimson, flustered to receive such high praise from such a legendary prosecutor. “U-uh, th-thank you, Mr. Edgeworth. I mean! Uh! Chief Prosecutor, sir!” Miles chuckled, a sound that Apollo was certain not many heard. “Please, Mr. Edgeworth will do. Now, I’ve heard you’ve taken over the case that Mr. Gavin was originally meant to take?” Apollo nodded. “Yes, Mr. Edgeworth. Once I heard who it was I would be defending, I insisted! He was always a hero of mine when I first decided I wanted to be a lawyer as a kid. Even after what happened seven years ago, I still believe he’s innocent!”

Edgeworth nodded, satisfied by the fledgling defense attorney’s passionate answer. “Excellent. Well, then, your client shall be arriving shortly.” Apollo looked up at him, clearly confused, so Edgeworth continued without pause. “I said I wasn’t here on prosecutor business, correct? The only reason I came here was to make sure your client could get here on his own.”

Apollo hummed in even further confusion. “What do you mean, Mr. Edgeworth? Is he… injured?” Miles shook his head gently. “You’ll see soon enough. Good day, Mr. Justice, and good luck with your trial.” With that, the Chief Prosecutor left the defendant lobby, his coat tails swooshing behind him. Apollo stood in the middle of the lobby, absolutely baffled, when he realized the loud stomping noises in the hallway had started again, and were getting louder-- and closer. He stood and watched as the door to the hallway was opened, not by a hand, but by an enormous flabby stomach as wide as the door was pressed into it slowly. The wobbling double-decker behemoth of a gut oozed past the door frame, soft enough that it could still fit through despite being wider than the doorway itself. Then came the rest of the doughy man’s front, his enormous drooping moobs and upper belly roll the only thing covered by his tent-sized sweatshirt. His neck was a thick ring of no less than eight flabby chins, all covered in a stubbly beard. His eyes squinted from behind jiggling oversized jowls that drooped down to his shoulders. The mammoth of a man continued shuffling his way through the doorway, squishing all his doughy rolls against the frame. His arms, which were just cylindrical dimpled pillows of fat that were slowly absorbing his round hands at the wrists, grasped at either side of the door frame to try and lever his massive bulk through the door easier. But suddenly, his flowing rolls of lard stopped moving through the doorway, and the flabby behemoth strained and pushed against the walls with his swaddled arms, trying desperately to get the rest of his bulk through the door. Apollo shook himself and trotted over to help the comically oversized man.

As he got closer to the wedged ball of lard, Apollo really got a good look at just how massively obese this guy was, even with only half his body visible. The young lawyer wasn’t skinny at all, but this guy even put his soft and round physique to shame. Apollo was pretty sure he could see the man’s feet peeking out from under the bottom of the exposed rolls of his incredible gut, which came down to just above his ankles. Looking down at his own stomach, which only just barely drooped over his belt, he couldn’t help but feel a little impressed, and maybe jealous, that someone could get just so ridiculously fat.

Apollo coughed nervously before addressing the panting, wobbling blob of a man. “Uh, sorry to bother you, sir, but uh, do you… need help getting through the door?”

The blubbery behemoth responded in a voice that was deepened by all the fat caking his neck and interrupted with wheezy breaths every few words. “Yeahh… tha’ woul’… haah… helph a lot… thin’ my assh ish… haah… shtuck…” Apollo had to take a few seconds to mentally translate what the enormous man was saying through his speech being slurred by his flabby jowls getting in the way of his mouth. “Oh, your, uh, b-backside is stuck? Here, let me grab your arms and try and pull you through, okay sir?” The doughy butterball nodded, his cheeks and chins jiggling as he did, and he reached his overburdened arms as far forward as he could. Apollo had to lean into the man’s cushiony stomach rolls to reach his arms, feeling himself sinking into the warm, soft adipose. He grabbed onto the man’s fat-ringed wrists and began pulling as hard as he could, trying to ignore the way being enveloped between the man’s blubbery tits and tummy made him feel. After a few minutes of pulling the immense man’s nearly useless arms, Apollo finally felt the wobbling flab all around him begin inching forward slowly. He kept tugging at the monstrously sized man’s round hands as he in turn shuffled his titanic thunder thighs through the door, every roll and fold of fat covering them touching at the middle, all the way down to his ankles. Once he got his double door-wide hips and thighs through the door, it was just a manner of getting his fat ass inside, which was easier said than done.

Apollo let go of the man’s flabby arms to take a few steps back and think of a new plan of attack. He scanned the blubbery blob’s body, observing the parts he could now see that were stuck on the other side of the door before. It was no wonder he’d gotten stuck in the door. It was a single doorway, and this man, who was so fat that he’d probably be immobilized by his own weight soon if he kept getting fatter, had a lower half that was wide enough to take up five chairs at a dinner table. One overstuffed thigh was almost as wide as the doorway itself on its own, let alone two of them. His squishy love handles oozed over the top of his sweatpants that probably had more X’s in their size than Apollo cared to even imagine, giving the already definitively pear-shaped blubber bag a overflowing muffin top behind his apron of stomach rolls. His arms rested at a ninety degree angle because of his beanbag-sized tits and plush love handles colliding with fat-coated arm rolls that were the size of his own fat head. Damn, how huge must this man’s butt be if it’s still stuck in the doorway after all the rest of that managed to get through?! Apollo thought to himself, when he noticed the whale-sized lardball eyeing the food tables that he’d almost taken a donut from earlier. “Who’sh tha’… haah… food f’r...? Haah… haah…” the behemoth wheezed. “The food? Oh, I’m not sure. It was here when I got here. No one said whose it was.” Apollo could only stand and watch in awe as he observed what happened next. The monumentally obese man began wobbling his bulky form forward and backward against the door frame, slamming his rolls against it repeatedly as cracks began to form around the wooden framework. He then began slowly inching his thunderous legs forward, having to shift his blubbery bulk back and forth in a painfully slow waddle, his lard-caked thighs touching at all points no matter how far apart he spread his legs to “walk”. As he moved his door-sized legs forward, the cracks around the door frame widened, creating loud snapping noises as he dragged his rolls of fat further and further into the defendant lobby.

Finally, with one resounding crunch, the door frame gave way, parts of the walls surrounding it coming with it, crushed to pieces by the enormous blob of a man and his incredible ass cheeks. The flabby titan’s doughy body surged forward as he freed his backside finally, giving Apollo a chance to finally see the probably half-ton of lard in all his glory, and boy, did it make sense how he’d gotten so stuck in that doorway. The man’s ass was easily wide enough to get stuck in a double door, let alone a single one! Each doughy cheek probably took three chairs to sit on on their own, and they sagged so far down that they were touching the floor! Apollo was stunned. How could someone get this fat and still be up walking around? The swollen mass of fatty rolls wobbled constantly as he stood still, wheezing from the effort of busting through the doorway using his hundreds of pounds of fat as a battering ram. After getting his breathing back to the normal level of heavy breathing for one his massive size, the colossal mountain of man-flesh turned his attention back to the tables piled high with food across the lobby, drooling at the sight of it all. He began shuffling his jiggling bulk towards the tables slowly as Apollo watched in fascinated awe. Each heavy step shook the entire room, his double-decker gut rippling with shockwaves from slapping against his meaty cankles with every step. His shapeless flabby ass cheeks wobbled hypnotically as they bumped against the floor with every movement. His beanbag chair moobs slapped against his flab-caked arms, which rested at an angle even when waddling across the room. His cascade of chins and sagging jowls shook with every heaving breath from the exertion of walking so much. As soon as the man’s gut rolls reached the tables before the rest of him, he flung his doughy body at the plates of food, his fat hands grabbing any food within reach and stuffing it into his greedy face, chewing loudly and getting his chins covered in food. Apollo cleared his throat and spoke to the whale of a man. “Um, excuse me, sir, but, wh-why are you here? This is the defendant’s lobby, not a buffet.”

The barely-mobile butterball spoke around a mouthful of food. “Mmmmph… sho… Milesh… mrrrrmph… dihden… shay…? Youh… ahre… hffff… my… lawyuh…mmmmph…”

Apollo’s jaw practically hit the floor. Gazing at the mound of blubber before him, wearing a tiny sweatshirt stretched across his moobs and sweatpants what couldn’t even contain half of his ass fat, the young defense attorney stammered out a response. “W-what?! So then… y-you’re the Phoenix Wright?! The famous defense attorney?” The man’s swollen fatty head wobbled in something resembling a nodding gesture, his neck too fat for an actual nod. “Wh-what happened to you? Last I heard, you’d been disbarred seven years ago! How did you end up like… like that?” The enormous Phoenix Wright paused his gorging himself to explain. “Haaah… haah… I wohrk… ash a… haah… tashte… teshtuh… urrrrp… fuhll… tihme…” The blob-shaped man smiled cryptically, before immediately returning to stuffing his face with the frantic speed of someone who thought they would starve to death. Apollo rubbed his temples, more stressed than ever. How was he going to defend someone who couldn’t even go ten minutes without eating? This case was going to be an ordeal, he could just tell.

#my writing #fat!ace attorney #fat!phoenix wright #ssbhm #male weight gain

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John!

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic).

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @sevenseasofcats @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @herewegoagainniall @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @allauraleigh @bluutac @johndeaconshands

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

#queen fic #john deacon fic #fic series #72 hours in montreal

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mojoflower · 4 years

Text

WHY is fanfiction not the appropriate venue for your political or social battle?

We can all agree, I posit, that there are changes that need to be made in the world (racism, for example; patriarchal inequalities; rape culture; capitalism; plug in your personal cause here).

We can all ALSO agree, I think, that the way culture, media, etc. portray things influences a consumer on an unconscious level.

We can agree that, in real life, certain things are clearly bad: abuse of others, non-consensual sex, systemic inequality, I can go on….

So. Let me feel my way through this. I, personally, feel like fanfiction (specifically on AO3, since that’s where I encounter it) is NOT an appropriate battleground for enforcing cultural change by:

Leaving comments about how someone’s work is (in your, the commenter’s, opinion) wrong, damaging, unfair, insensitive, etc.

Telling the writer they should change this or that.

Telling the writer they must add or delete tags.

Broadcasting your opinion of the writer’s egregiousness outside AO3 (twitter, for example, or here on tumblr).

Organizing a campaign of harassment against the author if they don’t change to suit your personal requirements.

First of all:

Be the change you want to see.

Fanfiction, unlike any other media out there, is INDIVIDUAL. It is one work, from one single person – voluntary and unpaid. You yourself are one single person. You can have as much influence as this writer. Write the works you want to read, instead of demanding that the writer change to suit you. This is how romance novels changed from non-con, non-condom-wearing, shudderingly unequal stories in the 70s and 80s to where they are now, for example. New people started writing stories, and eventually established authors started changing, too (or dwindled away).

Remember that you know nothing about the author.

You don’t know their culture, their skin color, their age, their gender. You don’t know their socioeconomic status or how much free time they have. You don’t know their current mental or physical conditions. You don’t know any of the things going on in their life. AND. You are not entitled to know these things. When you lash out at an author for not doing research, for not editing, for… anything at all… you cannot assume that they’re not fourteen, not suicidal, not a native speaker, not disabled such that writing a single paragraph is a tremendous effort. You don’t know they’re not in an abusive situation, or economic peril. You do not have the right to tell them to change. Whether you are asking them to change text, tone, tagging, ships, plot, you name it. Anything.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Don’t like, don’t read. These are simple concepts, and the tagging system on AO3 helps you to avoid many triggers. Simple common sense, once you're into a story that’s raising your hackles, will warn you away from the rest. If you say, ‘no, this person can’t write that, it’s contributing to pain in the Real World’ then you are functioning as a censor. I mean, at its most basic level, a censor is someone who strikes out passages in books or other media because it’s… immoral/bad/etc. The problem is that morality is incredibly tailored to the group you’re in, and also incredibly fluid, shifting over time. So… why do YOU get to be the censor and not the author? What makes YOU the final word? Seriously, think about it.

Fanfiction writers are the most vulnerable group you could target.

Which makes them easy prey, and possibly makes them the juiciest and most satisfying targets. Address your anger to Hollywood or Simon & Schuster or Congress – and your voice will doubtless get lost in the shuffle. Address it to an author on AO3 and you can deliver your blow personally, one on one, and witness the damage. There is no professional buffer between your resentment and their reaction.

Who are fanfiction writers? Overwhelmingly women, overwhelmingly queer, often very young and inexperienced. Wow. What a rewarding group to start slapping around. You wouldn't be the only one to think so. Seriously. Aim your anger at someone who is STRONGER than you. Not someone who is (likely) weaker than you. You’re kicking a kitten, while a lion lounges behind you.

Censoring someone’s thoughts is bad.

People should be allowed to THINK. And they can think whatever they want. Whether and where and how it should be expressed is another matter. AO3 is a safe place for whatever weird-ass thoughts you have. It is expressly written into their mission statement. AO3 was SPECIFICALLY DESIGNED so that authors could have a place for their dead dove fics.

So. Why is [your pet cause] okay on AO3 and not on a script in Hollywood?

AO3 requires membership before you can post anything, so it’s arguably private. AO3 provides tools for readers to avoid works they might find triggering. AO3 profits no one. Follow the money, and there are your true culprits. Not a housewife from Hoebokken.

Fanfiction writers make no money. When they write, they are not lawmakers, filmmakers, teachers or preachers. This is not their job. They do not have a responsibility to the community, because they are vested with no power and no paycheck. Please move your battlefield to one of these other venues. Your fight will be harder, but it will also do a lot more good than traumatizing some naive kid away from writing forever.

Fanfiction comprises an individual’s personal thoughts and personal works, written for their own enjoyment, shared only through AO3 to (presumably) like-minded readers. Fanfics are a person’s fantasies and daydreams. They might be an author’s therapeutic exercise. Or someone trying to explore something new, whether it be cultures, ideas, sexualities or kinks. Humans need a place where they can be wrong and make mistakes. Think about that, I implore you. If you are constantly pointing out someone’s errors, you may eventually either silence them forever, or instill in them permanent resentment. This does not further your cause.

You have your personal cause.

I’ve seen a lot of them. Incest is bad, you’re not allowed to write about it. Pedophilia is bad, you’re not allowed to write about it. Abusive relationships are bad, you’re not allowed to write about them. Racism is bad, you’re not allowed to write about it. Genderswap is transphobic, you’re not allowed to write about it. A/B/O romanticizes damaging gender inequalities. There are many. If every single one of you got to stamp out your personal crusade, then fic would be scant on the ground and many people wouldn’t try to create anymore. It’s stifling to creativity and terrifying to an author that they might slip up and be called out. No one, as far as I know, likes to think of their fanfiction as something that will be turned in for a grade.

Your standards are your own.

What are the precise parameters of an abusive relationship? Transphobia? Racism? Pedophilia? Fetishism? Where does dub-con become non-con? No one is the mouthpiece for the whole world. You are only the mouthpiece for yourself.

If you think to yourself that it’s not okay to tell someone they can’t write about, say, a gay relationship, but it IS okay to tell them they can’t write about a certain ship or dynamic (for Reasons), then maybe you should step back and check yourself and your entitlement to someone else’s endeavor.

In conclusion:

I’m not saying that racism doesn’t exist in fanfiction. Or creepy sexual abuse, or glorification of harmful dynamics. It certainly does. I’m not trying to play semantics with you.

But when you see these things, when they bother you... back right out.

That’s it. Just back out, ignore it and find a different fic. (Or better yet, write your own!) Shower the fics you approve of with love and comments about why you think they’re great. Give them kudos and bookmarks and shout-outs on your blog. Eventually, if your opinion is popular, authors who thought otherwise will realize that readership is looking for something different. They’ll change or they won’t, but the body of work will change over time, and THAT is what you’re looking to accomplish. Not to stamp out fanfiction altogether.

#mojo muses #fandom wank #censorship #social justice #fanfiction #fandom #I am not disputing the validity of your opinion on Thing #I am disputing your right to push it on a fic author #these are two separate things #cancel culture #antis

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chalkrevelations · 3 years

Text

So, Word of Honor, Episode 36 (and “Episode” 37) again, because I want to do a little bit more unpacking of this, particularly with some of the extra material and information that people have been able to point me to.

Spoilers, obvs. For right now, I mainly want to pull out this bit of my initial reaction to 36 & 37, because I think it remains a key point for me:

It would be nice, though, if the connective tissue from 36 to 37 made any sense. Or existed whatsoever. Just, like, throw me a bone, show, some kind of explicit hand-waviness that actually gets mentioned for why Ye Baiyi apparently was not as smart as he thought he was and didn’t really know what he was talking about when he was doomsaying about how one of the pair will surely, oh surely perish. None of this “Sooooo, they managed to figure out the technique and master it?” from some random shidi who never actually gets an answer. I mean, the door was left open for fanwankery on this one, with what looks to be a very last-minute conceit of all this being a story told by grown-up Chengling to his disciples, which begs the question of how much of what he’s telling them is totally accurate, given any number of issues …

I do feel like there’s an interesting meta thing going on here, in that the entire show has been about – let’s be honest, it was never really about the plot – queer-coding this couple in ways that supposedly fly enough under the radar that people can handwave them as Just Good Friends and Brothers (I mean, I guess) with a Bury Your Gays tragic ending (ugh) for good measure. And Chengling is telling a story in-universe that seems to conform to some of this same formula. And yet, we all know well and good that these guys were husbands … So are we supposed to carry the same assurance out of the show, on a meta level, that what appears to be happening in the story at the end of Ep 36 – what we discover we’re learning through Chengling’s story-telling, isn’t really the truth? Just, look: While we’re getting the Good Friends and Brothers push, there’s stuff like obvious voice-over work that doesn’t match the much more queer version of what the actors actually said, which is apparently blazingly clear to any viewers who know Mandarin and can manage to lip-read. The show has literally put de-queered words into these characters’ mouths. You can’t trust what you hear. But apparently the show has also made this obvious enough that, if you’re a good enough speaker of the language the show is being told in, and you have a good enough eye, you can see what is actually going on. Are we being taught to trust our eyes more than our ears, are we being told that what we’re being told – by the end of Ep 36 on a meta level, by Ye Baiyi-through-Chengling’s-story on an in-universe level, and by what we learn about what happened from Chengling’s story, itself, also on an in-universe level – is inherently untrustworthy, but that if we “speak the language” of this show well enough, and have a good enough eye, we can decode it and see what “actually” happened and is later made explicit in Ep 37?

So, that’s a lot, but the reason I wanted to pull it back out is because I feel like this no-homo, surface-level, smoke-and-mirrors effect that gets layered over a queer bedrock of “reality” is precisely what the show did with its ending, and I want to approach that on a couple of different levels. Particularly since I’ve seen several reactions from other people who didn’t seem to have seen/didn’t have access to the extra of “Ep” 37, or who also found it difficult and vaguely unsatisfying to make the leap from Ep 36 to full belief in, and commitment to, “Ep” 37.

When I first posted this, I was really leaning on the idea of a classic Rashomon effect, given that we see – imho – a final Zhou Zishu/Wen Kexing scene in Ep 36 that’s filmed to lead us to believe that Wen Kexing died, with a subsequent cut to Zhang Chengling wrapping up a telling of the “story” of ZZS and WKX to his disciples. The easiest fanwank on this is that all of what we’ve seen so far has been Chengling telling the story of ZZS and WKX to his disciples, making him an unreliable narrator who in fact doesn’t know the truth of what really happened. I was actually reminded of the contrast in The Untamed (god, I don’t need to warn for spoilers for The Untamed, do I, we’ve all seen Chen Qing Ling at this point, right? Anyway, SPOILERS FOR THE UNTAMED) between the cliff scene in Episode 1 when they make it look like Jiang Cheng stabbed Wei Wuxian, leading to his fall off the cliff, and you go back later and realize this is the version that the storyteller was telling to the people in the teahouse vs. Episode, god, what is it, 33? When we see the cliff scene in “real” time, and discover that’s not what actually happened, that what happened is that Jiang Cheng stabbed a rock and Wei Wuxian shook himself free of Lan Wangji’s grip to fall to his death. You can’t trust what you hear. Also … well, we’ll get back to Chengling in a minute.

The second level of uncertainty to unwind is Gao Xiaolian calling bs on Chengling’s story. So, I felt like the kid who’s practicing his forms in the snow and being coached by ZZS in “Ep” 37 might actually be someone, not just a random kid, and that might be important, but I could not for the life of me figure out who he might be. I wasn’t aware until I watched some of AvenueX’s wrap-up of the show (I think that’s the first place I heard this info pointed out) that this kid is supposed to be the son of Gao Xiaolian and Deng Kuan, and the dad who comes to take him home is Deng Kuan (formerly Da-shixiong of Yueyang Sect, who – let’s face it – Gao Xiaolian really wanted to marry). Seriously, I spent so much time making fun of ZZS’s stupid facial hair tricks in this show, and then they actually do just put a dumbass mustache on a guy, and I completely don’t recognize him. I have to admit, the mustache threw me enough that I had no idea that was Deng Kuan (well, and maybe only seeing him for three episodes also helped). But if that’s Deng Kuan, and if the kid is his and Gao Xiaolian’s son, then she would have some reasonable standing to know a story detailing WKX’s death was bs.

Finally, and most crucially – thanks to everyone who directed me to resources (including AvenueX and other fans who were able to do some translation) who were able to talk about the voiceover work in this final ep, because when I talk about how you can’t trust what you hear, but if you speak the language well enough and have a good enough eye, you can catch what’s really going on? When I talk about de-queered words being put into these character’s mouths? Apparently, this is what happens to Chengling in the final scene. That last scene - and the story he tells his disciples - apparently DOES provide the connective tissue from Ep 36 to Ep 37, but you can’t trust what you hear. Apparently, this is one of the places where you can see something different from what you hear if you’re able to lip-read, with Chengling telling the disciples something much closer to the idea that two people who love each other equally can equally support each other through this cultivation technique and both come out alive.

In the AvenueX discussion of this (Livestream #21, starting around 1:22:30), there’s an additional tidbit about the use of the word “cauldron” – I believe by Ye Baiyi - to describe one person in the pair, a word with a specific and widely-understood meaning within the genre that’s not necessarily known outside of the genre with, yes, sexual connotations. (Come on, slash fans, don’t tell me you don’t giggle every time you pass a perfectly innocent Jiffy Lube auto shop, at something that the mundanes don’t think twice about.) Apparently, “cauldron” is in the script, I believe it’s in the English subs, and it apparently was in the original Chinese subs, until too many people started talking about it and how it had been slipped past censorship, because it’s a perfectly common Jiffy Lube auto shop, right? and then it appears Youku went back and changed the character in the Chinese subs to something that doesn’t even make any sense. So again, we get an example of a case where if you’re a good enough speaker of the language this show is being told in – in this case the vernacular of wuxia – with a good enough eye, you can catch what’s really going on. Something that then gets no-homo’d. And has some nonsensical de-queered meaning laid over top of it. How many times do we have to do this until we learn the lesson that you can’t trust what you hear?

ANYWAY, I’m wondering if the visuals are important, too: Something we see in the last scene with ZZS and WKX in Ep 36, when WKX is either unconscious or dead (CLEARLY UNCONSCIOUS), is that ZZS – twice – doesn’t let WKX’s hands fall. He catches him by the wrists and then catches him again by the hands as WKX’s hands start to slip away from ZZS’s hands – aaaannnnd end scene. I have to wonder if that’s not a subtle but important detail, that we see ZZS refusing to let WKX physically slip away, and maybe, by implication, refusing to let WKX slip away from him into death.

Also, again with Ye Baiyi – in the flashback when WKX is yelling at ZZS, Ye Baiyi says “No one dies!” as he comes bursting into WKX’s sickroom. And then even reiterates it – “No one dies before me!” But then the voiceover during the qi transfer, he’s supposedly going on about here’s how WKX is going to have to kill himself to save his husband? I think the script has dropped the ball in a few places, but that would really be a tremendous flub. That also deserves some unpacking, but I’m running out of free time right now.

So, just some additional thoughts. I will probably have more, but next up, I think, will be a re-watch from the beginning.

One last thought, tho’: What’s the likelihood that Nian Xiang is Actual A-Xiang and Goa Xiaolian’s/Deng Kuan’s kid is Cao Weining, reincarnated?

#zhou zishu #wen kexing #zhang chengling #gao xiaolian #deng kuan #ye baiyi #word of honor #word of honor episode reax

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iellarenuodolorian · 3 years

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Just when I thought I was starting to get over Bad Batch Episode 8…..I looked at the galleries from this episode and I’m pissed off all over again… angry ranting spoilers under the cut…

Let’s start with this….

Cross’ika, oh how I’ve missed you. My grumpy, loveable asshole….I have missed your face. And your voice. So much, cyare.

I knew this episode was going to be rough, BUT NOT THIS ROUGH!!

Rampart gives the order to kill them. Crosshair disobeyed that order. HE IS fighting the chip. First, when he hesitates to take the shot when he has Hunter lined up PERFECTLY in his sights when they have the fight in the hanger on Kamino. Second, when he misses Tech on the star destroyer. Remember what Hunter says when he first introduces Crosshair?? “If you need to hit a precise target from 10 klicks, Crosshair’s your man.” Crosshair is the BEST of the BEST, and he does not miss. I can guarantee he could have taken a different shot at Wrecker, but he didn’t. It was enough to take him down, but not enough to kill him.

Crosshair is still in there, but he can’t escape alone. He needs help, when will the rest of the Batch realize that? And talking IS NOT GOING TO WORK HUNTER!

And then there’s this…

Former…

FORMER FRIEND?!?!?!

ARE YOU KRIFFING KIDDING ME?!?!

So you’re telling me that Wrecker can almost kill all of them, but we’ll save him because he’s the loveable teddy bear. But because Crosshair is grumpy, and rude, and quiet, and being used by the Empire, we’re just going to leave him to suffer alone?! Get the kriff out of here……

See my previous reasoning for why I think it’s absolute OSIK that they have abandoned him, as well as the following.

Something is off about Omega. I don’t know if it’s just me, or the fact that I look at small children and get suspicious of their conniving minds and what they are capable of, or what. She DOES have a chip, all clones that the Kaminoans have ever created have a chip. What happens when they activate hers, we will have to wait and see.

Part of me also wonders if Crosshair has done some research about what she could be since he’s been on Kamino all this time and we don’t know what he has been doing. Who knows, we might be wishing he had taken her out by the end….

I also have a problem with the Batch killing other clones. It makes me sick to my stomach to watch Wrecker throw those two out the window.

AND THEN!

You had THE PERFECT opportunity to take Crosshair up to the medbay and take his chip out. He was knocked clean the kriff out, and so were the rest of his troops.

GET HIS CHIP OUT, YOUR BROTHER IS STILL IN THERE!!!

So what you’re telling me here, is that you passed up an opportunity to get Crosshair’s chip out. And you’re still going to leave him at the mercy of the Empire’s hands. So you can go looking for the kid that you’ve know for all of a few weeks now, instead of getting the brother you have known for YEARS!!!

The brother who has watched your back, saved your neck, supported you through the good and bad times, who has ALWAYS been there for you. You’re just going to leave him to be a pawn of the Empire because you think he has chosen his side in this, when in reality he cannot choose because he is still being influenced by his chip, THAT YOU PASSED UP THE OPPORTUNITY TO TAKE OUT!!

And then there’s this…yeah its cool and I love it. But it’s too simple. I know, its a cartoon and it can’t be too chaotic, but I have a completely different HUD in mind.

TL;DR

I want it noted that I love each and every one of the Batch. Crosshair was the one I thought I would gravitate toward when the group was first announced. But then Tech stole my heart because we are just so SIMILAR! His hyper fixation, his infodumping, his knowledge about various random topics, the way he processes his emotions. But then I also love Crosshair because I always have a soft spot for the grumpy ones, and sniper’s just do something to me ok?? Hunter is just handsome and protective and stoic and I love that in a man. And then Wrecker is the big snuggly teddy bear that I would absolutely fall head over heels for. His energy, his extroverted personality, his high energy level would definitely be something I feed off of. And then last and most certainly not least is my cyar’ika Echo. I cried so hard when they pulled him out of that stasis chamber. I couldn’t believe he had been alive all this time. I really hope that Echo is finally the one who pushes them to get Crosshair back. Echo knows what it is like to be used for a purpose you don’t support. I’m just impatiently waiting for that to sink in…

I know all the clones are Mandalorian, you can’t change my mind. It’s why they all took one look at Omega and went “Orphaned child, must adopt” which leads to “Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad Omega” and then BOOM they are one genetically deviant aliit.

Thats all I want is for them to be a family….and for it to keep growing.

#bad batch spoilers #the bad batch spoilers #bb spoilers #tbb spoilers #bad batch reunion #bad batch crosshair #bad batch tech #bad batch echo #bad batch hunter #bad batch wrecker #bad batch omega #dont mind me I’m just going on a rant #this episode hurt me in ways I didn’t even know possible #i am also trying to write my own take on the episode where they get Crosshair’s chip out #its slow going because I’m doing back story and i cant decide if i want backstory or not

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peeterparkr · 4 years

Text

perennial;tom holland|ten.

chapter ten: aconite

↳ flower meaning: [beautiful flower, poisonous] be cautious

chapter summary: reasons to love, reasons not to and conversations that should be held.

pairing: tom holland x y/n

warnings: it’s slightly angsty, slightly fluffy, the chapter begins at some point but will not be at that point, you’ll see

word count: 10.2K

SOCIAL MEDIA BEFORE THE CHAPTER:

masterlist & profiles

nine: in which we get to know who Clark is

previous chapter next chapter perennial masterlist.

perfidy ( series masterlist)

wanna be tagged?

Hey guys! So as you might have noticed I took a break, school has been super demanding and honestly I wasn’t as eager to write this, kinda lost motivation to write perennial because it got too demanding and honestly, well you know it... But I’m back on track! I hope you like this chapter, it’s slightly different.

Sometimes life is ironic, like winning the lottery after you die, or meeting the love of your life and finding out they’re married, or rain pouring down on your wedding day.

Ironic by Alanis Morissette had been the first song that had played when they’d arrived to that bar, James remembered.

Ironic.

But the most ironic thing to y/n at least was Dancing Queen being sung in the background by two—no, three drunken girls, the bright notes buzzing, as they were too boozed up to hit any kind of decent note or any kind of lyric. It was ironic, as y/n was trying to hold back the tears as she rushed through the dancing crowd, a very unaware crowd, that was sweating and dancing and cheering and singing to the beaming to the cheerful song as she tried to swim her way through to finally get outside.

Y/n knew Tom and her had never been fine. It just wasn’t a word in their relationship vocabulary. It was usually chaos. Like what it felt at that precise moment. She knew that Tom and her were chaos, that was true. But this.

She couldn’t breathe.

It was something she already knew would happen, eventually, though it’s stupid to walk into a relationship knowing you’redoomed. It must have been a figment of her imagination. What she had seen. And on her birthday. Her very own birthday.

But it wasn’t.

She hadn’t imagined it.

But what exactly had led to the chaos? Why had it come so easily? Everything had been particularly lovely.

But of course, she knew that the fact she was crying outside a stupid bar trying to catch her breath, as she could still hear the faint music from the inside was no coincidence and was no surprise. Her sorrow had had a beginning and this chaos had been building up since James’ arrival, this was the ending she definitely didn’t want.

Not that it had to do with her brother per se, but it came from that moment. Or maybe she was just trying to blame it on someone else rather than on Tom.

She did blame it a bit on James.

“Y/N, here you are,” James said as soon as he had walked out of the bar. “It’s—“

“I don’t want to hear it right now,” she stated before looking up to see her brother. “I know it, James—“

“Y/N—“James wanted to calm her down. “I”

“I know, you told me so-”She snapped. “I fucking know that. Go and search for your fucking boyfriend that’s the only think you care about-”

Clark had walked out as if he knew he’d be mentioned. Clark had arrived days before, apparently James announcing his engagement hadn’t exactly been to share it, but rather a warning to y/n.

“Y/N, are you alright-” Clark had tried to ask.

“No, get out of my face, I need to… Where the hell is Emma?” Y/N didn’t mean to snap at him but she couldn’t care any less.

“It wasn't him,” Clark had tried to say.

But it had been. However, y/n guessed she knew what he meant.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “Could’ve been any other day but no, everyone fucking decided to ruin my damn birthday, I didn’t even care about it! I just—Need to leave.”

“But I’m sure Tom—“

And even though y/n knew it wasn’t... it felt...it had hit too close to a feeling that she was too familiar with. A deja-vu if one must say. A nightmare that she had once forgotten.

Of course, nobody did understand why she had reacted that way.

Correction, they did. They would expect her to react that way because what she’d seen had been hell. But they didn’t understand what she truly felt. Maybe Sam, probably Sam. Who had seen her all those years back, way too long ago. Yet it seemed like just yesterday. But Sam had seen a very different y/n back then...Not stronger but a y/n that kept her feelings. Not like this, running away from it, wasn’t y/n supposed to be stronger now?

He guessed that reliving it wasn’t easy, especially by what came afterwards. There was a slight difference this time, however, huge difference, actually.

Tom did run after her, and he was probably still searching for her.

“You don’t get it,” y/n said. “I—I need—It just felt—It felt just like that time.”

James saw Tom rushing out of the bar, too. He pitied Tom for once this week.

This wasn’t Tom’s fault… allegedly. Technically, it wasn’t. Now, if you look at the background of course he was to blame and he was an idiot, but this was something that James… could understand. He could, in a way, team up with Tom.

James knew this would eventually happen. This chaos was ticking and it was only a matter of time till the chaos exploded.

Relationships are complicated, but they’re bright most of the time. When two people are in love what else can you do about it?

James knew it, love was a bitch and love can make us do impossible things. Some people often confuse love with possession or love with passion or love for a caprice. James was particularly scared y/n would confuse love with a memory.

Love shouldn’t hurt. That’s why he was probably too worried about y/n. And too angry at Tom for making a fool out of his sister. He, however, was impressed by that. But not really since James knew that from a very young age y/n was stupid enough when it came to Tom. But to make a fool out of y/n when she was the one to almost usually keep her sanity?

James was impressed by how easily it was for Tom to make y/n go stupidly crazy when it came to him. Even now, he had been so impressed by his sister’s stupid infatuation. James did, however, like that Tom managed to get that smile he hadn’t seen in a while. But she looked very stupid while at it.

Tom was an idiot, too. Y/N also managed to make Tom the most stupid man on the planet. Not that he needed help with that, though.

However, just as fast as Tom could make y/n smile he could be just as fast to break her heart. Most of the time he didn’t mean it, and James was sure Tom didn’t mean to this time.

It’s the backstabbing disadvantage Tom had for being an idiot.

James had been one of the few people who had seen the true nature of their relationship. He had indeed noticed Tom was so foolishly in love with y/n from an early beginning and he had been the one to point it out when she was just a kid. He wished he hadn’t because the moment y/n had heard him say those words, she had turned into a very stupid little girl.

He had, however hinted it out to Tom, several occasions, that he did notice.

“Y/N looked pretty, huh?” He had asked once after seeing the boy blush.

“Breathtaking much, Tom? Please close that mouth.”

“You and y/n looked awfully good together in those pictures from prom.”

“Stop staring at my sister, eyes up here buddy.”

James did notice. Tom had even once told James about it. In his own way.

“I don’t actually hate your sister, not really.”

But he didn’t quite understand why they acted like that. Why had they been so full of pride to admit they were in love with each other? How bad would it be for both of them to admit that their eyes followed each other? Why did it hurt them so badly to admit they made each other blush and smile?

James had seen it after y/n came back from Rome, from both sides. Y/N would hum songs, Tom would be smiling more.

They’d be talking. Not fighting. Even laughing together.

And James had seen that this week, and he had been proven wrong. They truly were in love, even after all, even after everything. He could see them both, trying to fight for each other, the simplest of things he’d seen like Tom pushing y/n’s hair back if she was reading the script and it bothered her sight, or y/n gently squeezing Tom’s arm when she saw he was nervous about directing. Or both of them giving each other a look, with probably an inside joke of theirs or as if they were speaking with only their sight and then looking away and smiling to themselves.

They were in love, and James knew it. James knew love.

Love for him was Clark.

His damned secret, kept for too long from y/n. He would’ve kept him a secret for longer, not because he was ashamed, and not because he didn’t like him. But because… Clark was something so personal for James and sharing him meant losing their intimacy.

Clark and James were fine by themselves, they didn’t need anyone intruding in their relationship.

Clark is the love we all dear and yearn for, the kind of love you only see in movies in the background, nor even the main characters, just the one perfect couple that’s always in the cafe, quietly smiling at each other. The kind of love that’s cozy, and that though it may be troubled sometimes, it’s truthful. The one love you never want to give up.

He’d seen the way Tom looked at y/n, it reminded him of the way Clark looked at him.

Maybe that’s why he wanted to side with Tom this time.

James was getting married and though it might had come to a surprise to y/n, he knew that if he were to tell Tom, Tom wouldn’t be surprised at all.

Tom had introduced Clark to James. Maybe he owed him for that.

“This guy, I swear, he’s the perfect catch for you, you’re gonna thank me one day, maybe on your wedding day,” Tom had said with mischief.

“You know you don’t have to introduce me to every gay guy my age you meet,” James had sassed. “Besides, where did you meet him—?”

“Golfing, his dad—“

“Oh, he golfs? Hard pass, I hate guys who like golf,” James had cleared. “Pretentious idiots.”

“Hey!” Tom had frowned, “no, but he doesn’t golf, he hates it, but his dad dragged him along so that’s why I think he’s perfect for you! I swear I had two words with the guy and I—“

“No.”

“I already gave him your number.”

He had hated Tom at that point but… he guessed he was very thankful for that and that’s why maybe he was having such a hard time trying to convince himself that Tom wasn’t meant to be for y/n, because if Tom had been so right about Clark, how wrong could he be about y/n?

James wanted y/n to have a Clark. And though, he had initially loved the idea of Tom and y/n, he now saw how it could end up so badly if they didn’t get rid of the baggage, which was unmistakably very heavy for both of them to ignore. It's baggage that’s been built from years now.

Baggage that James and Clark didn’t have, because they always talked it out. Baggage that had shown up at that very particular night.

But he had told y/n about it, he had warned her on his very first day in LA.

“You’re getting married, oh my god,” y/n had said for what James was sure was the hundredth time. And she had been even more excited when she’d learned he’d be coming.

“Yes, can we move on—“

“No!” She stopped him. “Why do you want to move on?”

“Because—“he couldn’t quite explain it. Clark was his. He didn’t have to say anything else.

“James!”

“The same reason as to why you didn’t want to tell me about Tom,” James said.

“So you have baggage?”

“Not—“James closed his eyes. “When you were—Back in Rome.”

Y/N watched him. “Oh, because—it’s,” y/n understood about it. Love is between the people in love and that’s it.

“Or—no, no, look, it’s—“James sighed. “I’m—it’s my thing you know?”

“I’m your sister.”

“It’s not about not sharing it with you,” he rolled his eyes, “it’s about keeping him to myself, you know? To be lucky enough to know what we have.”

“But—Clark? I thought you—I didn’t know—You said you hated the guy!”

James glared at his sister waiting for her to see the irony.

“No, my case is different,” she pointed out. “Tom and I-- well… You said you hated him!”

“Well, I lied alright? I just never wanted to admit—I mean you knew I was dating him, why does this come as a surprise?”

“Because you— hated him?”

“I didn't. I just didn’t want to admit that I fell in love with someone Tom introduced me to.”

She looked away. “See? He’s not that bad. I mean he—he introduced you to him, he's not as bad.”

“I know he isn’t,” James agreed. “But you have to talk to him.”

“Everything was simpler when we pretended to hate each other,” y/n had said, melancholically staring at the ceiling as she had a flower pressed to her chest. “Maybe I—understand it, spreading it out is difficult.”

James rolled his eyes. “Why is it so hard for you to tell him that you’re not okay?”

“Because I feel like he knows already,” she admitted. “But we're trying to pretend we are okay, so we… I don’t know, fake it till you make it.”

“Y/N—“

“I’m kidding, I mean—I guess we haven’t really had time to talk, we—We already kind of talked the Timmy thing which—“

James could tell y/n was the one who didn’t want to talk, they were very much alike in that matter. “The Timmy thing?”

“He’s incredibly jealous of Tim,” she rolled her eyes tiredly, “which I don’t—It’s stupid.”

“Is it, y/n, didn’t you tell me you slept with him?”

“Yes but—I—Look,” she coughed. “It’s—Not something—I… I don’t know, when… I saw Cherry, I guess I wanted to get over him, but I can’t… I...it always comes back to him, you know?”

James watched her, confused.

“It’s funny, how we translated the bad parts into good ones, and I am so scared that I won’t get to say everything I feel for him for yet another chance…. And he is just...The love of my life, and it feels...there’s no other explanation for it, you know? He just is. And I look back and even though we were always fighting I just…” She took a deep breath. “And it did break me, the Cherry thing, him moving on with someone else just, I guess I wanted to move on, too, I thought… It’s gone, you know? Then he comes back and it’s another spark, you know? I just get out of my stupid senses... but I just did it because I couldn’t bear the thought that we are not meant to be.”

James remained quiet.

“And no matter what everyone says, I’d still choose him, you know? It’s so…” She cleared her throat. “So stupid, but then I just remember that feeling with us laughing and smiling and the...The first time he ever said he loved me I couldn’t quite… Believe it, you know? And it’s not… Gosh I hate that we are both so stupid but we’re doing our best, and he…I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid but I think… I like to think we both missed waking up beside each other.”

“That’s not love.”

“No, I know, not that, but it is love, in our own very particular way, but we’re so much more than that, yes the pieces are all scattered around, but I know I want to fight for it, and… I think our problem is we aimed too high or… I can’t help but be confused about the script you know? Because if it hadn’t been for it… I would’ve never had a chance yet it seemed like I… It’s a very delicate subject, but I don’t know, love is complicated, that’s it. But I love him more than anything.”

James knew that y/n knew that Tom and her probably didn’t work out. She knew she’d broken Tom’s heart. It was no secret that y/n felt that the worst thing that she’d ever done was breaking his heart. She knew that, and though everybody said it, she should forgive herself, she knew that it wasn’t easy.

James didn’t know what to answer.

“I don’t want to lose him.”

“Yet you’re loving him as if you are going to,” James intruded.

“You never know, and i think that’s the best way to love, love as if you’re gonna lose each other, then you know you’re really loving them…. Life has taught us both that we can screw up,” she gulped. “And I don’t know, I know...there’s a part of me that thinks it won’t last even if we try to, you know? But then again, I think about it and I know we’ll eventually end up together again. And I know I… look, I know I shouldn’t be saying this because I need no man but this time in L. A., I felt… numb, you know? And I guess I was sad because there was nothing holding us together, and… I would put on a smile every Friday, you know? Pretend I was okay, and I was healing of course, but I still had so much love left for him. Still do and I don’t want to let go of my chance. Might as well be happy, I’m tired of listening to me crying anyway.”

Y/N did say ‘you know’ a lot, and James did know. Not sure how.

“Why do you love him?” He asked.

“He’s just too good to be true,” y/n smiled slightly, to herself. “I don’t—know, I just do, he’s the only one that gets through to me, and I feel alive when I’m with him,” she bit her lip. “I feel like I am a teenager all over again, but a good way, like when you’re excited about trying new stuff and excited about growing up, and being rebellious, and” she closed her eyes. “As cheesy as it sounds, I just lose all my defenses, but with him, I don’t feel lonely, he’s like… I don’t know, he’s just a song written by the hand of god.”

James only listened. Y/N wasn’t… this, usually. Y/n never really said things like that. It was odd.

“Y/N, that’s—“

“I know, I’m being ridiculous,” she blushed. “But I do love him. Because he’s—a moment, he is… I love him because I know him, and even with his flaws I completely love him.”

“He’s an idiot, y/n, he slept with Cherry.”

James didn’t understand it. Not really. Or not completely, for that matter. But he knew it. It was so complicated but he didn’t blame her, he guessed that y/n wasn’t a quitter, maybe that’s why she was trying so hard. And maybe she was right, and he knew it, Tom wasn’t that bad… But the fact he’d slept with Cherry was completely inappropriate.

“I never thought I’d need him,” she admitted. “And I missed him, but I didn’t miss the heartbreak.”

A broken heart can blind us.

He’d seen Tom once back in London, and he wasn’t alright. Tom wasn’t doing fine with y/n being away, and with the heartache, his eyes always looked tired, and he was paler, and quiet.

Tom was never quiet.

And yet just as James had arrived in Los Angeles he’d seen a very different Tom, one with bright eyes and pink cheeks again. Like y/n, too. Her voice over the phone sounded off, always too distracted, or not there. Now she seemed… better, but still broken.

James knew there was no use on trying to convince y/n and she had promised that she wouldn’t continue unless she talked to Tom about it. James knew she was so good at avoiding it.

Y/N had taken James to set the next day and he’d seen them again, very different, very professional. He saw it in their eyes, though. Eyes looking to lock with the other and that shy smile.

James had to look past that, as he saw his little sister’s dream come true, and he could tell that she didn’t quite believe it herself. And it was like seeing that little girl just from years ago with a hope and a dream and her always bossing the Holland boys around as she wrote a script for their home made movie.

He saw them all like kids, Tom, Harry, Sam and y/n. It was like them being kids again. In a way.

Now it was a real set, with real actors, a real movie, a real script and Harry was directing, he couldn’t believe it. Y/N and Tom were discussing over with some of the actors and Harry talked to the crew.

James guessed Tom and y/n had a lot to say between the chemistry of the actors. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, how they did work together, at least in the professional way, as Tom was directing them.

Did it hurt? James wondered as he watched Tom, directing Gregg, telling him how it should feel:

“She’s the love of your life and that guy over there took the chance when you blew it up, of course you hate him, he’s the worst person in the world because… What makes him so bad is that… he is perfect for her,” James had heard Tom say.

James had time to observe y/n and Tom. From afar and when y/n was not hiding. On that particular day when they were rehearsing that one scene when Valerie and Teddy were together, when they were supposed to be in love, dancing, all while William had to watch in the distance.

Odd scene to see, considering his conversation with y/n. Did y/n have feelings for Tim still? Even if she assured she loved Tom?

All of James' doubts were clearly erased as soon as he’d seen them.He’d seen them laughing with each other, shyly looking away, and y/n… giggled.

Y/n giggled?

It bothered him. Because it felt like Tom didn’t care, as if they’d simply erased it, in a way. But James was very aware that y/n was only bottling it all up, and y/n is dangerous, if she bottles too much she would end up losing control.

James had seen them walk away together to have lunch, Sam and Harry had gone separate ways after but stayed far enough from them. Emma had joined James instead, they were close to y/n and Tom.

Emma seemed sad. James couldn’t ask much about it, but from what he’d gathered from Harry, things weren’t going fine. Harry had only mentioned how it would take him a lot of time, that there was hope but that Emma just didn’t want to give in. But James could tell Emma did love Harry, and he admired Emma, her bravery and strength. She had to break off an engagement because her fiance wasn’t sure about it. Of course she wouldn’t forgive him that easily, Harry had been an idiot.

James wished y/n was a bit more like Emma, y/n was too forgiving, and y/n was too stubborn and too blinded by the stupid boy to see it.

James and Emma were eavesdropping, because both of them probably didn’t have a conversation themselves, and because both of them had gone close so they could hear, but hidden enough not to be seen.

Nothing interesting about their conversation, the script, the set. Until...

“I was going to take you camping,” Tom mentioned out of the blue.

Y/N had chuckled. “What?”

“Yeah,” he gulped. “For your—for your birthday.”

She grinned. “Camping?”

“Yeah,” Tom cleared his throat.

“That sounds so—cool,” y/n said, a bit confused by the idea.

“But guess that idea is off the charts now.”

She scowled. “Why?”

“I am pretty sure your brother doesn’t want you alone with me,” Tom laughed nervously.

James nodded in agreement to Tom’s statement as Emma tried to hide a snicker.

Y/N sighed, rolling her eyes, shaking her head and letting out a very forced laugh. “He’s an idiot.”

“No, no, I—I understand it, you’re his little sister and he’s always been very protective.”

“He hasn’t,” Y/N chuckled.

“Oh, he has, even I know he had a talk with Tim,” Tom hissed the name.

“What?”

“Didn’t you know? He told him that if he broke your heart he’d chop his dick off,” he assured her.

James shrugged and looked at Emma. “And he didn’t,” James whispered. “Because Timmy is a good guy.”

Emma scoffed.

“I… oh my god, I didn’t know,” Y/N sounded embarrassed.

Tom coughed. “I’m terrified of your brother.”

“Good,” James mouthed to Emma.

“Hm but what were you planning?” Y/N asked, getting back on the subject. “Camping, really?”

“I dunno, rent a cabin, go for a hike, spend the day and night together,” Tom had changed his voice and gotten slightly closer to y/n.

“Hm tell me more,” y/n had grinned.

James motioned as if he was going to puke.

“And I thought we could have time to ourselves you know? I know we work best when we are alone,” Tom had continued before getting his lips close to hers.

“Hm we do,” y/n had closed the gap between them.

“My sister’s an idiot,” James told Emma. “Why are you letting her do that?”

Emma rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “I can’t stop her.”

“And well I thought it’d be romantic,” Tom continued.

“Hm why don’t we go?”

Tom laughed. “And take your brother?”

“We wouldn’t-”

“We would have to, y/n,” Tom laughed.

James nodded again.

“But yeah that was my idea, you and me in the woods with no distractions,” Tom commented to y/n.

“Hmm…” Y/n had leaned yet again to kiss him.

James scrunched his nose, he really didn’t understand how Tom managed to get y/n so stupid.

“You know, the cabin I had seen was really romantic,” Tom explained.

“Was it now?” y/n blushed.

“Yes, hm... it had a fireplace, and it was so cozy,” he continued. “And I know it’s not 80’s type of aesthetic you like—“

“No, no, shut up! I would’ve loved it, it sounds so romantic,” y/n had chanted.

James was confused. “It doesn’t, ew,” he whispered to Emma.

“It was,” Tom agreed with y/n.

“And what were we going to do?” Y/n asked.

James closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Hm, there was a nice place to go hiking, uh, fishing, maybe? and you know relax, talk, get...cozy,” Tom continued.

“Oh,so he was right?” Y/n asked.

“Who was?” Tom frowned, confused.

“James,” Y/n said.

James raised his brows at the mention of his name.

“About what?” Asked Tom.

Y/n giggled. “You were planning on giving me your—”

Thankfully, Tom hadn’t let her finish the sentence. “You’re taking away all the romance out of it when you say it like that!”

James wanted to die.

Y/N laughed, loudly. “But were you?”

Tom was embarrassed. “I—I mean it may have been on the schedule yes hopefully—I mean don’t say it like that, oh my god, y/n—But—“

“Was it on the schedule then?” Y/n asked. “How did you write it? Sex at 8?“

“No! No, I—it was—Not planned—I mean I wasn’t going to assign like a time but I mean it would I—kinda thought I—mean I knew—I assumed—“

“Oh, so you assumed it?” Y/N laughed. “So you just assumed I was going to ride you?”

James seriously thought he was going to die.

“No, I didn’t!” Tom was red. “Y/n! I—I no!”

“So you didn’t want to then?”

“Yes! But—I thought it could be an open possibility?” Tom was nervous. “I—“

Now it was y/n’s turn to not let him finish as she had already kissed him again. Emma was so entertained by the conversation and James’ reaction that she couldn’t hide a lighter for not longer. James lost it by then, so he quickly stood up and walked to them.

Emma followed, curiously.

The couple was still kissing.

James cleared his throat loud enough for both of them to hear him and quickly separate.

Y/N frowned. “James for god’s sake!”

James walked over to them, “We are having lunch and I don’t see you eating, so Emma and I should join you.”

“Sorry y/n,” Emma whispered to her friend.

Tom and y/n were red, so, so red, and Tom was shaking. James only glared once at Tom before Tom moved away from y/n, just as James sat between them.

“Your food is intact,” James pointed out.

Tom moved away. “I—we were.”

“No, Tom, eating my sister’s face is not lunch,” James cockily said.

“James what the fuck,” y/n snapped at her brother.

Tom laughed nervously. “James, c'mon man.”

Emma felt awkward. “Why don’t we—eat?”

They stayed quiet for a bit.

“So, what are you guys?” James asked.

Tom almost choked on his food. “What?”

“James!” Y/N complained.

Emma just smirked.

“yeah, what are you? Have you guys talked about it? All your emotional baggage?” James pushed.

Tom coughed. “We have been.. discussing it.”

Y/N turned to Tom. “don’t answer”

James smirked. “No, no no no, y/n, I wanna know.”

Tom nodded. “What do you want to know?”

“What is going on,” James reminded him.

“I love your sister,” Tom answered.

Emma watched between all of them.

“Doesn’t answer my question,” James raised his eyebrow, as if challenging Tom.

“James,” Y/N hissed.

“I—it’s it’s true I am deeply in love with her and have been for a while now,” Tom said as if defending himself.

“Are you a couple?” James asked.

“Yes,” Tom said.

“No,” answered y/n at the same time.

Both of them turned to each other, with confusion.

Emma blew her cheeks in.

“Um… What did you think of the… I saw you guys were working on Jesse’s girl today!” Emma quickly intruded.

James clicked his tongue. “No, wait Emma… This is interesting,” James continued.

“What-” Tom frowned watching y/n.

Y/N shook her head. “James can you please leave us alone.”

“I… Well, I’m just confused, and I have more questions… A, y/n why do you keep making out with this man if you’re not a couple I mean you can do whatever the fuck you want with your life but this man may I remind you has broken your heart and hurt you in so many possible ways—even broke your bones?”

Tom coughed. “That was accidental... all of those.”

James shook his head. “Eh, I haven't finished pretty boy, and b) why are you Tom, saying you’re a couple when you haven’t talked about it?” He pushed.

Y/N glared at her brother. “James this isn’t any of your business.”

Tom only clenched his jaw.

“Uh, er… Guys, I’m gonna….” Emma had awkwardly stood up, “I’m gonna pretend they need me over there,” she announced before leaving.

“You’re fucking insane,” y/n declared at her brother before storming off, following Emma, leaving James and Tom alone.

Tom avoided his gaze.

“I know you hate me, but-” Tom started.

“I don’t, I care a lot about you and that’s why I’m doing this…” He said.

Tom scoffed. “Oh, so you’re helping me out with this?” He glared.

“I’m not,” James said. “But you perfectly know what you did to y/n, and I’m sorry Tom but you can’t-”

“It’s between me and her,” he said.

“But I know you both, and you’re both so stupid, Tom, for fuck’s sake, and you slept with Cherry,” James snapped. “I’m not letting that-”

“Who told you?” Tom asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jamessaid.

“Did you tell her?”

“Didn’t have to,” James said. “She knew it already. And if you don’t have the balls to talk about it with her, which honestly-”

“I want to, okay?” Tom barked. “I can’t believe I did it but I want to work it out!” He snapped. “I thought you were fine with us!”

“No, Tom I’m not—fine with this,” James explained. “And I can’t believe I’ve let you hurt her this much and I swear Tom she might believe you but I don’t-”

“Look we want to talk it out, I mean it alright—your sister is the love-”

“Love of your life! Then why have you been such an asshole to her?” James wondered. “Do you even know it Tom? How badly you broke her? After Rome? Do you even realize-”

“Yes I do! And that’s why I bloody want to do things right this time, okay? I want to give her the entire world, alright? I’m not… I’m not joking, alright? I actually… I want to make it up to her, I’m… so in love with her, and I just want the best for her,” he said, gulping. “I…” He sighed. “Maybe we haven’t talked about it because we both know it’ll break us apart, alright?” Tom looked away. “And I just want her to know about it, everything, how she’s been my everything… Since we were children, okay… James you know me, you’ve known me my whole life and you know I’m not lying to you, I love her,” he sighed. “I don’t want to hurt her and I know I’ve fucked up. I just… I know it, it’s so hard, and I…” He gulped. “I guess… I know I slept with Cherry, I know, I did it, I’m not denying it, and I have no excuse but I… When I did it it was… I thought she had left to move on with Tim again because... “ Tom looked away. “I know it, alright? I’m not… good enough for her and you’ve shown me that, because you didn’t fucking act this way with Tim, and no one has said it with me, I know I’m the bad guy here, Harry doesn’t approve of me, Sam doesn’t approve of me, Emma doesn’t approve of me, you don’t… like me,” Tom gulped. “But I genuinely love her, and I know I’m a fucking mess, but… nobody knows about us, alright?”

James clenched his jaw. No, it wasn’t alright no matter how many times he said it.

“And it’s difficult to apologize, you’re right, I probably don’t have the balls for it, I’m a fucking coward, and I know, but I’m just trying to be honest with her, and with you, I genuinely want the world for her, and if I have to go back to the start then I will,” he sighed. “And I don’t know how to talk about it with her, and I don’t know if she feels the same way,” he took a deep breath. “And it’s killing me that I don’t know where she’s standing, and she avoids talking and I know how… She works, you know? She’s always been so reserved.”

“The problem with both of you is you both think it’s you against each other,” James said.

Tom looked up at him.

“It’s always been that way, y/n against Tom, and I feel like you’re doing it again,” James said. “I am just telling you both, to realize it, it’s both of you against the problem not you against each other,” James said.

Tom nodded. “I know that, and I’ve tried talking to her, but she… Ignores it, or someone comes in, or we have to-”

“You’re searching for excuses,” James said, he seemed calmer now.

“I’m not,” Tom said. “And I really mean it James, I don’t want to break her heart, I don’t want to hurt her anymore.”

“And if she ends up hurting you?”

“I’ll work it out,” Tom said.

“Why are you directing this?” James questioned.

Tom didn’t answer that, instead he took a deep breath.

“If this is another one of your stupid plans—“

“It’s not, and not even a plan to try to win her back,” Tom explained, “it’s not—not like that. I want to give her the world,, and I know this—This whole thing is the world to her, you—you really underestimate me, Jay, as if I were some kind of stranger to you or to her, but—I’m not,” he repeated.

“Maybe it’s time you both move on.”

“I don’t want to move on, and—I tried, I—that’s why it happened, everyone said it: Move on, Tom, she’s just another girl… and fuck.”

“She’s—“

“She’s not, I’m very aware of that, but even Haz and Harry said it, I fucked up, she fucked up, move on man,” Tom mocked their voices, angrily. “Just another girl, and, and I tried to… move on, thinking yeah, it’s only a stupid thought or whim, yes and I thought—if she’s really just another girl, then why the hell can’t I move on? how—Even other friends said, hey, you’re Tom Holland,” he let out a soft dry cackle. “a million girls are dying to be with you and—“Tom closed his eyes, “maybe it was that, me trying to—Trying to move on, but I don’t—want it, I don’t want another girl, James.”

James only watched him.

“And I’m telling you this not because you are her brother but because you’re my friend and I’m—I’m just—You know me, James, you know me perfectly and you’re acting as if you didn’t, yes I’m—I am an idiot, and yes I know I’m probably the worst option for her, and I probably tick every single bad box but—at the same time I’m—“ he gulped. “I just can’t believe how stupid I am, and I—I am” Tom meant it, James could tell. “When I’m with her, I feel like myself, and I don’t often feel that way, and she’s just this… incredible person. And I’m—terrified, I’m terrified of it. But I need her,” he gulped. “Not—in—I don’t know.”

Maybe James needed to hear that from Tom. Though he still—James couldn’t forgive Tom. Even if it wasn’t his business, he could forgive him for breaking his sister.

“And I’m very aware that I’ve lost her before because I know it, I’m an idiot, but maybe I’m too stubborn to admit that I lost my chance. Because I—I haven’t, alright? And this might be my last one but—I can’t admit it to myself, but I know about it, Jay, I know that what we could’ve had is gone so maybe just let me cling on to whatever we’re holding on until she decides to let me go, alright?”

“I don’t understand why you’re both in a relationship where both of you think it’ll end up badly,” James had questioned.

“You see, I’m trying for it not to end up that way,” he said,

“But you think it’ll end, then?”

Tom hadn’t answered him.

“Why do you love her?”

“She’s my home,” Tom shrugged as he quickly answered, he didn’t have to think about it. “I—I was always scared of growing up but it doesn’t hurt when I’m with her, when life is—getting too hard she was always there with those pair of old jeans and bright smile and yes, initially she was there to call me an idiot but she just made time stop, completely,” he shrugged. “Because she just—“ he smiled sadly, “she helps me find my heartbeat in the middle of all the bustle.”

James didn’t know Tom could be so poetic. But he meant it, or at least James hoped he meant it.

James didn’t push it any further. After that, y/n had ignored him. Y/N was excellent at doing so, if she wanted to ignore someone she’d make sure they noticed. And she was angry at her brother. Besides when it comes to siblings, it feels even more personal and very immaturely done. y/n had ignored James and made sure to make him feel ignored. She would avoid his gaze, and she’d pretend she didn’t listen to him.

She hadn’t even offered him a ride back to aunt Eliza’s.

Tom had been the one to offer it.

James had apologized to Tom, and he had only shrugged it off.

“She’s your sister. I get it, she deserves the world, you’re only trying to give it to her.”

Harry said he needed a beer, maybe they all needed one.

Maybe James had to give it to Tom, y/n was one to ignore people and her problems per se. Tom had also ignored James, not like y/n, Tom was probably angry at James. James didn’t care for that.

“I love the chemistry between Gregg and Auli’i,” Harry had said when they were at the bar, all of them beers in their hands. “They’re—really—“

“It’s too familiar,” Sam had laughed. “Very familiar.”

“Not—there’s something missing,” Tom said.

“Is it weird?” James asked.

“What?”

“Come on, the script?” James said.

Tom shrugged. “It gives me a better understanding of her,” Tom admitted. “It’s—She really did write her heart out in there.”

Harry watched between them.

“What happened today?” Sam wondered. “I saw y/n storm off with Emma.”

“I was a jerk,” James said, “to her and to Tom.”

Sam and Harry side-eyed each other.

“What’s going on with Emma?” Sam asked, quickly trying to avoid the subject.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, it seemed like an old bad joke hearing about it.

“She’s… She says she’s not ready,” Harry said. “She just says she’s not ready, and she…” Harry took a deep breath.

“You two are the most stupid men in the world,” he said, staring at Tom and Harry. “You both come here, without giving them any warning, and you expect them to run after you? And don’t--Emma’s reaction is logical,” James continued. “But you have to understand that Emma came here to heal, Y/N came here for her dream, and you two came in barging just to shove it, the two men they came running away from just shoved in their way to say ‘Hey, y/n, I’m in charge of your dream now’”

Sam took a log sip from his beer, with a big smirk. “Thank you, James, that’s what I’ve been telling them.”

“But… Okay, yes, but you don’t know all the facts,” Harry sighed. “Look, if we hadn’t taken the project probably nobody else would!”

James blinked. “What?”

Tom looked away.

Harry bit his lip, nervously, shaking his head. “I… We called the studio looking for her project and apparently there had been a lot of directors and producers rejecting the project,” Harry said.

“So yes, we decided to barge in, and we said we’d be the stand in directors until someone showed up,” Tom explained. “We worked with the casting and everything and we’ve been behind the stage but we--And, I know that y/n never wanted us to be involved but the thing is it’s… It’s a hard project, and she’s unknown, and… It’s an amazing story, you know? But it’s… Films these days are all about superheroes, I should know, or too serious, and--It’s got potential, it’s got a lot of potential, and--” Tom sighed. “Maybe it was a mistake but at least this way we can be assured it’s get done her way. So at the end… we did accept the project because I’m just... “

Harry watched his brother and then turned to James. “Yeah.”

James had really underestimated Tom, probably everyone did. Maybe that’s what Tom was so stressed about.

“I do--” Tom clenched his jaw. “I might want to change just a few bits but I…”He looked away. “We’ve been talking about it with her, to make William more human, less of an asshole.”

Harry nodded.

“I think,” Sam shrugged. “Well, I don’t know much about films or whatever, but I think he’s human enough, and at least you understand it, I think y/n actually did a great job on him,” Sam continued. “I…think he even made him even way too nice,” he chuckled. “Like, there is a point where you understand why she loves him, I think, the story is built so you think you need to hate him but I guess the audience is supposed to fall in love with him as Y/N-- I mean, Valerie falls, hell, she even made me want to fall in love,” Sam laughed. “But I mean it’s purely fiction, in real life I don’t get how the hell she’s in love with you.”

“Shut up,” Tom rolled his eyes, he had chuckled slightly, but James saw that Tom was slightly hurt by those words.

James had read the script only once, he hadn’t really read it because he felt like he was reading y/n’s diary, which he had done once when they were younger, and she had been so angry at him. The script had felt like getting into y/n’s deepest feelings. He remembered a particular line which had stuck out from the rest.

“I love him and I’ve run out of reasons to say why, I just know that even when there’s no music playing we will find a way to dance.”

Maybe Tom needed everyone to know the backstory, see past his actions. And probably y/n didn’t know this, James knew she’d get angry because she wanted to get it out herself, not be helped by him, make a name for herself, however in the industry it was difficult enough. But maybe it made sense, the reason why y/n loved Tom so much, because she didn’t need reasons to, she just did, and he kept giving her reasons to.

“But….Emma, then?” James asked, trying to get back on the subject.

“Well… she slept with Josh,” Harry continued.

“What?” Tom interrupted, angrily. “She did what?”

“That night after the movie,” Harry bit his lip. “I-”

“And you’re okay with that?” Tom questioned.

“They’re not together, Tom,” Sam quickly said. “Besides, it’s most likely because-”

“Because she was nervous about Harry coming here,” James ended the sentence.

Harry shrugged. “She was honest about it, and I mean--I don’t, I know she doesn’t love him, and yes, I was jealous but…”

James watched Tom who nodded, knowingly.

“I mean she chose a random guy to have sex with because she was stressed,” Harry nodded. “And she did tell me it meant nothing and I mean, it’s… It’s her body, she can do whatever she wants, and we… are not together.”

“Where does one draw the line, though?” Sam questioned. “With rebounds, I mean.”

James scoffed and shrugged. “It depends, on how soon, how the relationship ended.”

“The whole, are we in a break or not,” Harry shrugged.

“Yeah,” James laughed. “Classic Ross and Rachel, we are on a break type of situation, like, of course, they were on a break but it was too soon, because-- there are breakups that last for a day, y’know? The argument says it all, and right away… Gives the wrong impression, as if, I didn’t love you anymore so I hooked up with the first person I saw, either in spite or-”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, also who it is with.”

“Oh, yes,” Sam nodded. “Right, like.. If it’s with another ex?” Sam clicked his tongue.

Harry scrunched his nose. “I think that’s normal, you know?”

“Is it?” Tom frowned. “Why would it be normal?”

James saw it as an opportunity to defend his sister, not sure whether Tom knew it or not. “Because it’s something familiar,” James said. “Like, you don’t have to search for something you might not like so just go to someone who once you know… Knew you.”

Tom coughed. “But like, that should mean they have feelings for them.”

“Nah,” Sam tossed a few fries into his mouth. “Well, depends on the ex, but like, if you’re only hooking up with them, I mean,” Sam rolled his eyes.

“It could awake feelings,” James nodded. “But if you’re searching for an ex it means you’re not up for someone new, it means you’re stuck somewhere there and sleeping with an ex means not wanting to move on.”

“And alright, if you-- You’re still dating Clark, right?” Tom asked. “If you broke up and he slept with his ex would you forgive him?”

James scrunched his nose. “I mean,” he shrugged. “As long as he doesn’t sleep with any relative.”

Tom opened his mouth to say something but then exhaled defeatedly.

“Like, for example, Sam,” James said. “That’s crossing the line on rebounds.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that’s… fucking up, by the way Cherry’s coming and well--”

“What exactly happened between you both?” James questioned.

Tom bit his lip, he took a deep breath as he tried to map his thoughts out, knowing that what he was about to say would change a lot of things.

“We were friends,” Tom said.

Sam and Harry only watched his older brother, probably nervous to the outcome of the conversation.

“I--Well,” he sighed. “She said she wanted someone to show her around London and…” Tom shook his head. “I… Well, she did flirt since the beginning and I… I didn’t answer at first, but then…I was so angry, I… I thought about it and thought hey, I lost my chance and y/n ran back to Tim and she is probably moving on.”

“Why did you think she was moving on?” James questioned. “She literally told you she loved you and only you.”

Tom took a deep breath. “I’m an idiot, and… I dunno,” he sighed. “I thought she would end up going back with Tim.

Harry widened his eyes with surprise, awkwardly asking for a second beer.

“I don’t know, I was heartbroken, I was stupid and… I missed her too much and I...And I felt lonely and and everyone here sees me as the bad guy, and I continue to be the bad guy, but she was someone new and someone who didn’t know me and she was... And then I saw Tim posted a picture and it was… Undeniable taken by her, you know?” Tom looked down. “And I… Well, that’s how they started last time, her taking pictures of him and I thought she would again and so in spite, or full of rage and so I tried to move on and the option was right there in front of me and Tim kept posting you know, and even if he didn’t say it I just knew it was y/n, and one day after way too many beers I finally gave in to Cherr’s flirting and it--”He squeezes his eyes shut. “And I told her that whatever happened, it didn’t have to mean anything I told her, no strings attached, no feelings and… it happened,” he sighed. “And I….But it didn’t feel… I don’t even remember how it happened and I just didn’t feel good with it, it made me feel even worse and lonelier and then she kept wanting to hang out and I just shut her out because it was a mistake and then, I thought I was a rebound to her as well, she had just broken up with her girlfriend and I thought I was just a rebound but she then… Showed more and I just… Gave her no explanation, not… I don’t know, I told her I wasnt in a good place and that I was still in love with someone else and that wouldn’t change and yes, I’m the asshole again and…”

All of them stayed quiet. What were they supposed to say?

It was ironic, how both Tom and y/n had assumed they’d move on, and the reasons why they did it, both of them sleep with an ex and a relative, because both of them assumed the other one would move on. Why? Maybe that’s why they were so stubborn right now because both of them realized neither did and they probably never would. As if they were just happy to find out they still loved each other but were too afraid to admit it out loud.

They remained quiet.

“Eh,” Sam had cut the silence, too awkward for him to handle. “Not that I don’t want to talk about a conversation that will probably end up giving Tom a mental breakdown, and don’t get me wrong I love having awkward silences, but I need… I need to know, Jay,” Sam smiled. “May I know what’s that on your finger?”

Harry and Tom finally landed their sight on James’ finger, a silver band wrapped right around his left ring finger.

“Hm?” James quickly hid his hand.

“Is that an engagement ring?” Harry questioned with a smirk.

“Uh-”

“Wait, uh--” Tom shook his head to shake away the sad feeling. “Are you engaged?”

“To Clark?” Harry asked.

Though he didn’t want to talk about it, he knew that the other conversation wasn’t for him to know. The other conversation was something Tom had to work out with y/n, which, yes, the reason had been very stupid, y/n had to work out with Tom how Tom felt about Tim.

Probably James and everyone else did, maybe they really had made Tom feel unworthy of y/n’s love and that’s why he kept sabotaging himself.

James did end up telling them, and he even finished the conversation thanking Tom for introducing him to Clark. Of course he didn’t have to tell them all the details, they were three straight men too stupid to care, and James was grateful he didn’t have to share as much, because it was his story, not anyone elses to know, it was his relationship and it was his Clark.

James had, however, explained to them that Clark would come, too, James was slightly nervous about it, given that he knew that y/n was definitely not going to be welcoming and that she’d keep ignoring him. That’s how y/n worked with James, no matter if he tried to apologize, she wouldn’t talk to him.

James knew he had made a mistake with this, but he needed to hear it from Tom, and though it wasn’t technically any of his business, he knew that Tom was more understanding, in his own way, than y/n.

Tom could talk to James, that’s the difference, and Tom hadn’t talked to James for a while and so James didn’t know, and of course it drove him crazy not to know why or how this was happening.

Tom, Sam and Harry all offered James a room in the house they were renting to stay there with Clark, he had accepted it because he knew Cherry was coming.

James didn’t want to face Cherry. Because James had this one habit that he couldn’t ever get rid off, he was too nosy when he wasn’t asked, and he had talked to Cherry about Tom, and warned her that Tom was just too important to y/n.

Y/N, as expected, kept ignoring James. But he had seen that Tom and y/n had gone out one night, alone, together. He had heard them walk into the house, and as much as he had tried to avoid eavesdropping, he had walked out, innocently to the kitchen and he’d seen them, on the couch, talking.

“I think we need to add a scene,” Tom had said. “It’s… important.”

“But… I don’t get it,” y/n said. “You want me tro write another one, I thought you’d said it was too long.”

“But this one is important y/n, it gives… backstory to William.”

“So you want me to make something up? Just to….”

“Yes, I told you, William searches for her after the whole London thing.”

“But that didn’t happen,” y/n said. “And that’s why Valerie-”

It seemed, Tom had told James, that Tom had found a loophole to talk without talking. Tom had explained to James that y/n would be avoiding the conversation, that didn’t surprise James. But Tom found a way to use the script to go over it, Tom had told James that they hadn’t really talked much but he had figured how to make them understand each other.

“It did happen, so let’s add this scene, right before Jessie’s girl scene, I need it,” Tom said. “And I talked about it with Harry and he says he wants it, too.”

“So he searches up for her? And then what? She shuts him out-”

“She’s not the one answering the door,” Tom explained. “But William does go to mend things and then T… Teddy opens the door.”

y/n had stayed quiet, as James was still wandering in the kitchen.

“James will you please leave?” She asked her brother. “I won’t continue this conversation until you leave, I know what you’re doing.”

He had left, but at least they had opened a conversation. He had seen them the very next day, asleep on the couch, so peacefully y/n laying on top of him. She had woken earlier than him and seen James in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” James had said.

“Morning,” y/n had answered sheepishly, as she stretched out.

“Oh, are you talking to me now?” James had asked. “I made tea.”

“No,” y/n had said before getting a glass of water.

“I’m sorry,” James said.

“No, you’re not,” Y/N answered. “You got it your way, didn’t you?”

“I just want the best for you,” James said. “Have you talked already?”

“About some things,” y/n said. “But it’s none of your business, as you said it before, it’s like Clark for you, Tom is mine, and my relationship is mine.”

“So there is a relationship?” James asked.

“There’s a hope for one,” y/n said. “And yes, I fell asleep on him, and yes, I keep kissing him but I simply want to, alright?”

As soon as Tom had woken up and walked up to them, probably sore from the couch too as he was stretching out his arms, y/n ran over to him and gave him a passionate kiss, probably a very dumb way to prove to her brother that she was being rebellious.

And if that hadn’t been a message clear enough, she’d flipped James off before walking away.

“I’m--” Tom probably wanted to apologize to James but was still left too dumbfounded with the kiss.

“Don’t,” James had rolled his eyes.

That kind of behaviour continued, y/n trying to prove something to James.

Cherry had arrived three days before y/n’s birthday, and Clark had arrived the next day after she did.

They hadn’t had any contact with Cherry, not James at least. James was too busy exploring LA with his fiancé. It felt weird saying it.

“Fiancé.”

Y/N didn’t know Clark was in town, but as soon as she learned it, she had seemed to forget she was angry at James. She’d met Clark before, of course she knew of his existence and that her brother was seeing him, they’d met but y/n had learned from James’ pasts relationships to not get too attached because ‘James changed couple more often than he probably showered’, which was too different from y/n, and y/n, though she had noticed about Clark, and though she did mention it from time, to time, James had tried to avoid it, because he’d finally fallen in love and he didn’t know how to act around it.

Clark, however, had shown up to Harry’s engagement party, and that hadn’t gone well. Of course James was skeptical of showing his family, and the Hollands because he… Well, he didn’t want Clark to think they acted that way. Of course, that’s why he was reserved.

Tom had been the one person who had had contact with Clark.

Clark had said it to James once, “Tom is deeply in love with your sister.”

“They hate each other,” James had answered.

“No, if he did hate her he wouldn’t pay that much attention.”

Clark was right, obviously. Clark, actually was someone who liked to observe and he was the one to calm James.

As soon as Clark was in town, he had listened to James’ stress and said: “She’s been in love with him her whole life and the dude, too. And you’ve said it, y/n tends to save it all for herself.”

He was right. But James still thought that y/n and Tom had to talk about it, otherwise the chaos would come, but maybe it could wait.

But y/n’s birthday arrived.

Although the chaos was supposed to be coming, James wouldn’t have guessed it would come this way. And he wouldn’t have guessed it would come that way.

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mickmarstookmyheart · 4 years

Text

More Espresso, Less Despresso

Part: 3/?

Pairing: Mick Mars X Reader

Summary: You have a decent conversation with your mom about Mick.

(pic from Pinterest)

You couldn't recall when was the last time you laughed that much while you were at the studio with the Crüe. Tommy was a total goofball, Nikki was kind yet a bit high, and Vince was like a gay friend you were aching for years. Doc seemed the smartest one among them, of course, beside Mick. After you all ate the food you had brought they started to tell stories of the previous concerts and backstage moments. You had a deja vu but not in a good way. Memories and feelings crossed your mind as the hours passed.

"Are you alright? You look a bit pale." Mick asked with a concerned look in his eyes. You had been quiet in the last ten minutes and he noticed it. At first, he thought it was because of your introverted self, but then he saw the tears in your eyes.

"Yeah, I'm okay." You sighed blinking fast to get rid of the tears. You didn't want to be weak. You wanted to forget that whole era of your life. And now, you were in the same deep pit.

"Hey, (Y/N)!" Vince yelled, putting his feet on the table. "You are coming with us right?" The blood froze in your veins and you even forgot how to breathe properly. You gulped then put a smile on.

"I don't know, Vince. I barely know you and-"

"That's the point! We want to get to know you." You weren't the most spontaneous one. At least, not anymore. Joining a band on tour after one day was quite a big deal. And your mother wouldn't be so happy either. On the other hand, you weren't sure if you wanted to tag along. You had enough.

"Vinnie, you met her hours ago. You couldn't force her to come with us." Nikki said. "Right, (Y/N)?"

"Yeah." You smiled.

"Well, you know where we are going so feel free to come and see us on a show." Vince winked and drank from his beer.

"Just call me and I will give you a pass." Doc added.

"Thanks, guys, really. But I think I gotta go now." You jumped down from the top of the piano and headed to the door.

"Why so soon?" Tommy pouted standing in front of you blocking the way. He didn't help your situation. You felt horrible and just wanted to go home.

"Please, Tommy." You said shyly. But he didn't move just smirked. You knew he just joked but you weren't in the mood.

"Drummer. Let her go." Mick snapped from behind earning a sigh from Tommy. He stepped aside but patted your back.

"See you soon." He grinned and hopped down on the couch next to his Terror Twin. They were so kind, you hated yourself for leaving. However, you know that you wouldn't enjoy yourself. You wouldn't be able to distract yourself from the memories they all brought back.

"Bye, guys!" You waved and left the room with Mick by your side. After he closed the door you let out a long breath you didn't realize you were holding. You didn't say a word until you weren't in the streets again. "I'm sorry." Mick turned to you while walking with raised brows.

"For what?"

"For leaving so early." You shrugged and adjusted your coat tighter. "I didn't feel like a good company."

"Yeah, I saw that something was up. Wanna talk about it?" You shook your head as a no. You weren't ready to talk about that. You didn't want to tell him the reason you moved there with your mom. Why you were the girl reading in a café. The introvert one, the shy one. Why you had to hide behind this disguise.

"Everything is alright, Mick. Nothing serious, I promise." You showed your most believable smile which he loved. He noticed that you were lost in your thoughts and those thoughts made you sad. He saw that something snapped suddenly after Vince asked but he didn't want to ask there. He asked it now but you didn't feel like telling him and he respected that.

"Got it." He stopped and stood in front of you. "But if you are feeling down or wanna talk about anything I'm here, okay?" He rested his hands on your shoulders. "And it's the most obvious thing to talk to each other every night, right?"

"Of course. Though I will miss my caffeine buddy." You sighed.

"Well, if you visit us at one of our concerts I will take you to the finest café nearby and we will drink a huge amount of that!"

"Pinky Promise?" You asked pointing at him.

"Sure, whatever it is." He looked puzzled but chuckled anyways when you intertwined your little finger with his. "Then you have to promise to me that you will come to a concert as soon as possible."

"I promise." You winked and continued walking home.

∆

"Hey, mom!" You yelled as soon as you stepped in the house and hung your coat.

"Hello, honey! I'm in the kitchen!" She shouted back as she was flipping pancakes. You sniffed in the air and hummed from the delicious smell. You stepped next to her and placed a kiss on her cheek making her smile. You loved your mom more than anyone, even yourself. She was there for you when you needed the most, where you needed the most. She always knew how to cheer you up and make you happy. She knew you better than yourself.

"Smells good." You smirked.

"Thanks. So where have you been? How was your day?" She asked glancing at you while placing the pancake on a plate.

"The café." You lied. Well, you didn't lie just didn't tell your whole day. "Read a book, drank a cappuccino as always."

"Sounds interesting. And boring. Why don't you find a book club so you can meet new people?"

"I like being on my own." You said filling your mouth full with pancakes sitting on the counter. You tried to distract the topic but it was hell hard. "And what about you, mom?"

"But it's not healthy being alone all the time." She insisted making you groan and roll your eyes. "Don't grimace, young lady. And yes, you need to find new friends. Who may help you forget the old ones..." She sighed.

"I like the old ones. But you are right. I need to forget them as all those years from that era." You lowered your head staring at your black leather boots. She was right you knew that. And you did find friends just not the right ones. The guys didn't help you forget, on the contrary. "But enough about me. Do you like your new workplace? Is your boss handsome?"

"Hey!" She threw the kitchen towel right on your face from that last statement. "And to answer your question...FUCK YES! He is tall, dark-haired, and has blue eyes..."

"So basically, your type." You giggled watching her faking fainting.

"Girl, you know me so well!" She laughed. "And his voice...I can listen to it for eternity." She sighed hearts all around her head.

"Then, you are in the best position you can ever be. Being his assistant means hearing his thunderous voice. All. Day. Long." You pointed at her with your fork stressing the last words.

"Don't play with me. And? What about you? Don't tell me you haven't met Prince Charming in that café you go to every day." She glanced at you, but you were staring down avoiding eye contact. "So you've already met him, haven't you?" She asked in a low voice.

"You could say that." You jumped down from the counter and headed upstairs but your mother grabbed your wrist before you could reach the stairs. You didn't know if you should tell her or not. You have a deep connection with your mom, you told everything to each other so she would listen to you. However, her reaction would be quite controversial.

"(Y/N). I could see that there is something wrong." She placed her hand on your cheek giving you a warm smile. "Come. Let's eat then you can tell me everything."

"I'm not hungry. I will start now. So there is a guy." You began.

"Let me guess. Black hair, sarcasm, music lover. Am I right?" Your mom interrupted.

"Damn, mom!" You snapped glaring at her.

"Okay, I will shut it. But was I right?"

"Of course, you were, goddamn. He came to me at that café while I was reading and we started to talk. We have many things in common, more than we should, actually. He is kind, generous, and is a great company." Your stomach did a backflip just thinking about it. At the same time, your heart was aching since you knew it won't be the same. It wasn't your café, not your usual coffee, not the squeaking chair you usually sat on and not the old-fashioned table with the blue cloth covering it.

"Sounds good to me." She frowned.

"Promise me you won't freak out." You looked deep in her eyes making sure she understood what you asked. She nodded so you took a deep breath and prepared yourself. "He is a musician, more precisely, he plays in a rock band. And I know what will you say but please let me finish it!"

"Alright." She swallowed and clenched her jaws.

"They are leaving town tomorrow and when they asked me if I would like to join...I said no. Did you hear me? I said no!" You gripped her hand firmly. You didn't like when she was making that face and it broke your heart. She was disappointed, sad, furious at the same time if that was possible. "I won't meet them again if you tell me not to. But please let me meet Mick once more. Just once so I can say goodbye." You sobbed.

"Honey, you don't need permission for that." She gave you a half-smile. "I trust you, I believe that you know what is good for you. And you are an adult now, you can do whatever you like. Things happened in the past, that's why we moved here. To leave those awful and horrible events which occurred there." She gulped and pressed her eyes together trying to erase those memories from her mind. Drugs, booze, rock and roll, death.

"I love you, mom and I'm so grateful. To have such an understanding and strong mom like you." You stood up, walked over to her, and hugged her tightly. She was the strongest person you've ever known. She lost a son, you lost a brother. And still, she managed to put a smile on her face whenever you felt down, desperate. Moved to another city, found a new job, and continued being the coolest mom on Earth.

"Your brother would be so proud." She sighed letting you go. Despite the fact that your brother overdosed, she still talked about him like it hadn't been his fault. She got over it and tried to remember her son as he was before the drugs. Lively, creative, and cheerful.

"So, this means I can visit them? On the tour?" You asked with full of hope.

"If you can take care of yourself and avoid all those things, then, of course, darling. I want you to be happy and somehow that guy makes you that. I can see it in your eyes and the way you talk about him." She smirked.

∆

Days, weeks, months passed. Lonely days, sitting in the café, reading books. Every time the bell rang above the door you glanced up to see who it was. It wasn't him. You have pretty mixed feelings. Although your mother was okay with it, you just couldn't make your finger pushed those buttons on the telephone. Every time you tried, you just put the phone back to its place and continued suffering.

On the other hand, you were afraid. Scared to see them using drugs and killing themselves with it. You wouldn't survive. You have already seen your brother passing out on the couch while injecting heroin in his veins and it was the most horrible thing you've ever gone through. You shook your head to get rid of the memory and kept on reading. Hours went by and you were about to read the last page when a shadow covered all the lights.

"A moment, David. I'm on the last page then you can close the café." You said not leaving the page.

"Hey, (Y/N)." A familiar voice echoed making you drop the book and gulp.

"Mick?!" You literally jumped up from the chair on him. "Wh-what at you doing here?" He hummed feeling your arms around him and the scent of your hair.

"I was missing my soulmate." He smirked not letting you go. "Cause she didn't visit me against the fact she promised me. And it was even a pinky promise! An unbreakable vow, we are talking about." He chuckled making you grin.

"Well, the tour hasn't ended, has it?"

∆

Taglist: @leatherandheels @littlemisscare-all @safari-karrot @crazyrockrlady @savageandnikkiapproved 🖤

#motley crue #glam rock #mick mars #rocknroll #80s music #80srock #vince neil #nikki sixx #tommy lee #mick mars x reader #mick mars imagine #motley crue imagine #motley crue x reader

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baeddel · 4 years

Text

@androfem has made a number of good posts about transmisogyny, addressed to a milieu I’m very glad not to be part of anymore. I wanted to run off of something they wrote in this one...

[2.5k words. transmisogyny, racism tw. epistemic status: Hawkeye Gough]

while hedging an argument in the second paragraph, they write “i’m by no means someone who can definitively say what tme/tma mean” (thus preparing us to hear a definition but to treat it as nondefinitive), but that they see the acronym ‘tme’ (’tranmisogyny exempt’) as “the most palatable attempt trans women and transfem nb people have made towards identifying whether other trans people are one of them or not, and other trans people communicating that as well voluntarily.” By palatable they mean to other people in their milieu, who they spend the rest of the post attacking over the reasons they found all the other terminology (casab etc.) unpalatable. Their criticisms are all quite good.

But - am I crazy, or, aren’t they wrong in this quote? The way I remember it, trans women did not come up with the term ‘tme’. This was something that tme people came up with themselves. The use of tme would eventually become imbricated with the disuse of casab, under the argument that casab requires you to ‘out’ yourself, and so on, which was its own controversy. But originally it wasn’t related to this reservation or at least I never experienced the two as connected. tme was something that, to us, came out of nowhere; it was something like an alien bacteria penetrating the atmosphere from the belly of an asteroid; it woke us up to a whole neighbouring discourse that we were unaware of. That neighbourhood was made up of cis women, trans men, and nonbinary cafabs who were beginning to grapple with the ‘transmisogyny question’. At the time, most people did not take the concept of ‘transmisogyny’ seriously; many people still believed that trans women had male privilege and so on. It was a huge surprise to us to find a whole emerging discourse of non-trans women who believed transmisogyny was real and took it seriously enough to invent their own terminology for describing it.

It’s possible you can trace the coinage to some trans woman somewhere. But at least, at the time that we encountered it, we understood it to be the self-description of non-trans women. A lot of trans women at the time reacted very negatively to this. One of the main criticisms was that tme was not a ‘coherent category’ - could we say that it tries to be too definitive, ie. a definition that overapplies? The anxiety was that it would collect the experience of subjects which cannot rightly be put together; trans men, cis women, cafabs, whoever else, do not all experience patriarhcy(!) in the same way. They all have different proximities to misogyny, emotional labour (when you were still allowed to say that), access to community, sexual access & availability, and so on. Later or earlier, I don’t remember, this same discursive device would be used by trans women against casab; we were derided for “treating casab like a coherent class.”

Androfem may be surprised to learn that this criticism orginates with trans women, if they weren’t there for this. The gesture returns, later on in their post, when they chastise others in their milieu for reading trans women’s arguments in bad faith. They caution that “the assumption shouldn’t be made that [a transfem is] completely unaware of or in denial about” all of the various nuances of proximity whenever she says “definitively” (emphasis mine) that “tme people aren’t affected by transmisogyny”. At this point, the taboo on definitions reaches a delerious extreme - Androfem’s peers take issue even with this tautology! And the solution Androfem proposes is not to take the claim seriously, but to secretly insert something that disrupts it, imagine some inapplicable cases, and so on, and, further, to assume that she is also doing it behind the scenes. Androfem identifies this obsurantism with transmisogyny; their peers cannot bear to take a trans woman seriously, so they will always send her work back and demand a new more palatable analysis. And we trust they are right to make this diagnosis; but this trans woman experiences it as the terrible return of her own native discourse. What we sowed in 2012 they now reap in 2021.

Why has this discourse progressed to such an epistemologically vicious place, where no statements about gender are possible? Baudrillard would enjoy watching our transsexuality become transpolitical. For whatever unconscious reason, whenever we are presented with a master signifier capable of rendering the transcendental field, we are immediately compelled to castrate it. Our destiny is to constantly throw discourses into indifference. Maybe. But the more direct lesson is that something went wrong with the method of analysis we employed to explicate transmisogyny in 2012. What went wrong?

Maybe we can begin with some statements in Androfem’s post and work backwards. They write that “tme people benefit ... from transmisogyny”, although they insert in parenthesis “(some more than others)”. This was an analysis we would have subscribed to in 2012. In 2021, we now want to ask: who benefits and in what way? Who benefits more, who less, and why?

It’s true that transmisogyny brings some profit. Growing up as trans girls we are often deployed as women are deployed; we become the older sister, surrogate mother, and secret girlfriend. Whenever our peers see us in the correct light and notice our softness (to borrow a Saxon term), they exploit it. For boys the profit derives primarily from our socially acceptable proximity in the enforced homosociality that children in our culture endure. The trans girl is a girl who you can have sleepovers with, who you can have in the boys locker room, and so on, and therefore have early sexual and emotional access to. Girls generally exploit it a little later on, when heterosexual relations are expected. The trans girl can be a special kind of boy, like a ‘gay best friend’, but who is sexually available. Both boy and girl cast their brief teenage becomings on their own special gendered Other who is capable of facilitating it by her difference. Contra Balzac, it is precisely her castration that allows her to function as a superavailable Other, not (yet) as an overproximate Same that makes us recoil.

This relation of the tme to trans women dominates in the Bay Area of California, where trans women have resumed some of our traditional roles as temple functionaries. You probably have some homeless or recently homeless or about-to-be homeless trans woman (lets say she is ‘having to be homeless’) in your overcrowded apartment who will always be there to help you process your gender feelings and is probably down to fuck if you can get over yourself and make a move on her.

But these wages of transmisogyny are transitory and marginal. While most trans women will have encountered some of these kinds of exploitative gendered relations, it is by no means a universal experience of tme people. And, whats more, it is possible to have these relations, with the same benefits, which are not exploitative. I have known many cis girl-trans girl couples who got together under the bonds of enforced heterosexuality because of the profit each had for the other - the trans girl is not threatening, better about her boundaries, and so on, perhaps because of her own experiences of sexual exploitation; the cis girl, for equally contingent reasons, just ‘gets it’, and doesn’t try and make a man out of the trans girl - and when the trans girl realizes she is trans and comes out to her partner, the two track an escape route from heterosexuality together. There is no reason to expect it to always go one way, exploitative, or always the other, emancipatory. Is the cis girl ‘benefitting from transmisogyny’ in this scenario? Is she perhaps benefitting less than others, or more than others? I think that we cannot easily analyze every relation between person and person in terms of cost and benefit; even when we are bound by structures of domination, we cannot already anticipate the outcome. At the same time, if such experiences are rare, we aren’t surprised, because we know that the desiring-situations are staged in a certain way that makes discovering these kinds of escape routes difficult.

But simaultaneous with these occasional benefits, 1. transmisogyny is usually damaging to a trans woman without bringing any profit to her persecutor, and 2. transmisogyny is usually damaging to a tme person as well. Don’t you think so? Superficially, it acts as a limit on your presentation; all cis men growing up experience limits on their behaviour, backed by punishments, to prevent or destroy whatever might seem transsexual in them. Maybe it plays a similar role in the upbringing of cis women, trans men, cafabs, etc., in ways that are waiting to be articulated? On a deeper level, transmisogyny - as the hygeine of gendered categories, the social governance of presentation, etc. - plays a crucial role in the overall desiring-situation of oppressive heterosexuality; it creates a series of taboos, anxieties, myths and harsh realities which, in some indirect way, help to maintain heterosexuality’s renewal in each successive generation.

I think some harm was done by a too-ready application of frameworks developed to analyze white supremacy to the question of gender. The progressive leitkultur in those days was still the ‘invisible napsack’. While for transmisogyny the benefits are merely occasional, there are universally accessible wages of whiteness. White people enjoy a distorted labour market; the deterritorialization of black neighbourhoods creates (barely) affordable apartments for (eg.) white students [the scenario with the Oakland enaree we described implicitly takes place in one of these apartments]; and, most generally, there are habits of prosociality between white people which are difficult to break that continually renew the same distribution of wealth, status, care and intimacy [Eldridge Cleaver referenced Harry Golden’s gag about ‘vertical integration, horizontal segregation’ (pg 67) as a good description of race relations in Folsom; we find it to be a good description of race relations in the trans community as well].

When we tried to apply these readymade frameworks to transmisogyny, we found it difficult to construct relevant categories. Transmisogyny could not be domesticated to a form of exploitation metaphorized in economic terms. Therefore, every further demand for a ‘materialism’ that could clearly enumerate the relationships of exploitation would be frustrated, finding only edge cases and anecdotes. There was no underlying machinery that always produced this or that outcome. Therefore, each category was “incoherent”, too definitive, unable to capture what we took for an underlying system that was just out of reach. But the problem was only a misplace of focus. Transmisogyny is not really a system of exploitation; it’s the nightmare of a patrilineality that cannot enforce its borders. It is necessary therefore to move beyond categories like oppression and privilege, bigot and victim, exploited and exploiter, and deal with the domination that captures both ‘tme’ and ‘tma’ in its ruses. Now we can answer some of the old warhorses; CASAB is not a class which we can say anything about, nor is tme or even tma; it is rather the residue of a paternal subjugation, a ‘weight of dead generations’ that everyone confronts moments upon their exit from the womb; a universal coercive sexuation which we cannot help but encounter, combat or obey, enforce on others and despair in our private moments. Everyone, everywhere, is aware of the problem; and the exit is waiting, somewhere, as yet undiscovered, for anyone to seize.

So much for the riddle of 2012. In 2021 the situation is not really the same. Androfem’s milieu were not socialized by anti-revisionist parties and do not metaphorize their experiences in economic terms. Their platform is a sort of legalism. They enter into a discourse which has been a continuous bloodbath for twelve years (the relevant year for them is not 2012 but 2009, and the website not tumblr but wordpress); every discussion has already been had; what is necessary now is only to enforce the common law precedent. They are obliged to accept the existence of transmisogyny because it was already accepted before they got there; they don’t really understand why and are not curious about it. They are not gender abolitionists, but inclusionists. If they had lived thirty years ago they would probably have been exclusionists and thirty years before that, inclusionists again. Every conversation begins with some pious disavowal, ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again...’ Everything has already been tabulated in their stare decisis; asexuals are not lgbt, queer is a slur, cottagecore is colonialist, and so on. What motivates them is primarily some irrelevant triviality like whether this or that fanfiction is normalizing abuse or whatever. It is thus easy to see why Androfem argues that the old taboo on being definitive is transmisogyny; in their milieu it is a strategy for rendering the anti-transmisogyny laws unenforcable. If the law is ever invoked there is a loophole; look here, you missed this nuance...

Much of that milieu - from my own experience with it - is dominated by TERF cults that essentially run friend groups as front organizations; they start off siccing teenages on each other over shipping drama and soon encourage mobbing trans women undesirables. These networks were active on wordpress in 2009, they were on tumblr when I joined in 2012 (where they were able to leverage irl connections to intimidate members of my friend group who were organizing), and they are running discord servers and stalking tumblrs here in 2021. [If anyone from that scene is reading this far and this sounds at all familiar to them: I’m sorry but, yeah, you’re in a cult. You’re better than this! The fandom drama commentariat is not really worth trying to reform. Sauve qui peut!]

These are normally crypto-TERFs who are ‘officially’ inclusive of trans women and, in fact, their friend-group cults are usually full of trans women. Trans women, we have to say, make the most ruthless transmisogynists. To this extent we must disagree with Androfem when they say that “the smallest demographic in [TERF] communities are transfems”; in my experience transfems have sometimes been the most numerous, and it is precisely because TERFs are organized around transmisogyny. The reasoning behind this paradoxical outcome is understandable only in terms of dianetics and thetan space operas.

Anyway. I have sometimes felt that transmascs need some kind of Prince of their own; someone who is able to articulate his own transsexual line of critique in the face of trans women’s well-known and well-settled one, but with the minimum amount of ressentiment; who can hold his own against transfeminine parochialsm and not cave to cheap attacks, but also not make them, and not become parochial himself. I think that ‘tme’ is at its most valuable as an organizational principle when only someone like Androfem can “definitively” articulate it. It has to be a space for tracking the escape from my own desiring-situation on my own terms, in my own style, by my own design; bathed in my own light... But to be capable of accomplishing this it needs to become a break with all previous discourses. One that is open, flexible, and forward-looking; a dangerous gambit which is definitive and unprecedented...

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ladybirdwithoutdots · 4 years

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do you really need to bring shipper wars in the Austen fandom too?

Full offense but people who deny Emma is in love with Mr Knightley and hate on him because they ship her with Harriet, and pretend she should’ve ended up with her, are bullshit. I’m tired of these posts (including the Harriet stans whom I saw bashing even in some emma/knightley posts when fans of the latter are the first to make cute posts about Harriet too), and honestly, you all just make me feel very negative about Harriet and unable to truly appreciate her scenes with Emma.

Maybe I just don’t care about being a bitch but here’s what an Emma fan who is just tired of the anti Emma/Knightley crap honestly thinks about your nonsense:

Hating on the last Emma adaptation because Emma is in love with Mr Knightley and marries him in the end is as disingenuos and idiotic as hating a Pride and Prejudice adaptation because Darcy and Elizabeth are in love. Le duh! You can ship him with Bingley and her with Charlotte (or Wickham, if that’s your mood I’m not judging shipping choices here) but if you watch a movie based on an Austen’s book you know what you are getting yourself into, especially when her canon romances tend to be very important plot elements for the protagonists and their character growth.

I get it’s 2021 and hating all het romance makes some people feel woke and edgy, and I totally get alternative readings and things like that, but out of ALL Austen ships and all her female heroines, Emma is the one female character who doesn’t even need, neither want, to get married and truly only does that in the end because she is in love. Emma is the LEAST Austen heroine whose romance you should even question because she honestly only married the guy because of love and no other reason. Furthermore, unlike most of romances from that time, the guy Emma marries isn’t just some random guy she has met two seconds ago, it actually is her best friend, someone she knows since years and the one person who knows her best and loves her in spite of her flaws. Austen was very forward for her time with their romance, especially given the fact her male love interest actually decides to live with Emma and her father in the end instead of doing what every married man had the right to do at the time (take his wife to his own home where she’d have little to no power). Knightley and Emma are the (original) best friends to lovers relationship. He’s the best friend Emma had loved from the beginning without realizing it. It’s one of the main points of her story and the great irony of the novel that she thinks love isn’t for her, and she had never been in love, but she already is in love with him without realizing it because of their friendship. I’m sorry bro but that had never been Harriet, and it seems hypocritical tbh for some of you to want to give Harriet the story that Mr Knightley has with Emma, all the while hating on him and the romance. Even with the last movie, you have people take quotes de Wilde said about Knightley and Emma (e.g., the one about the movie making you think about ‘the best friend you maybe should have kissed’) out of context to manipulate others into thinking she was talking about Harriet instead (and queer baiting, which would be homophobic)

On one hand, we really do need more stories that put an emphasis on female friendships too and on other relationships that aren’t just the romance. On the other hand, it’s completely useless for writers to try to give us that (e.g. de Wilde in the last Emma) if everytime two characters care about each other and share screentime together, people claim that relationship (and all scenes that make perfect sense with a normal platonic relationship) must be romance and romance only. It’s almost as if some of you never had a friend and therefore believe that everytime a character cares about another character they must be romantically in love with them. It also makes me believe, more than anything, that romance is the only kind of love that exists or is important for many of you. And if that is the truth, why even bother with fictional friendships then? Why even complain when writers don’t give us that if we are unable to appreciate those relationships as something of equal importance with romance?

I really can’t take people serioustly when they overinflate Harriet and her relationship with Emma all the while they minimize Emma/Knightley’s mutual feelings. I read people who apparently find it harder to erase Harriet’s baseless crushes on every guy who gives her attention, than erase the actual love story and feelings of the protagonist! Tbh, even if you wanted a gay adaptation of Emma (and not one that is that just for the sake of), it would make much more sense to simply turn Mr Knightley into a female character, therefore still respecting the canon couple and Emma’s character arc, than ship her with Harriet. The latter is a weak alternative and frankly baseless for me because the only things she and Emma have in common is the fact they are both girls and they have an ‘e’ in their name. Full stop. Intellectually, Harriet is no match for Emma and their ranks in society are so apart that their relationship could never ever be equal (and it never was). I don’t want to be harsh but tbh I was never convinced they are actually friends in the novel, and the last movie made it even worse for they emphasized Harriet’s blindness about Emma’s feelings, and how one sided that dynamic is for it’s just Emma who makes an effort to be a friend in the end. Let’s be real here, Harriet doesn’t even know Emma and never really acts as a friend to her, unless your definition of friendship is ‘someone who worships you, and pretends you are the best and right even when you aren’t, as long as they perceive you as a savior who can help them'. That’s not what being a friend means to me. It speaks volumes to me that the one and only time movie-Harriet actually notices that Emma is a human being with flaws and feelings too is when she gets angry because Emma wants the same guy she wants. I don’t know if Austen’s ‘naive and completely clueless Harriet’ is worse or better than de Wilde’s version but the latter really emphasizes one of the biggest issues of Emma/Harriet even more, to me. As a book Emma fan, before an adaptations fan, I read all kinds of comments about this novel and character but honestly, I never read any real convincing argument why Harriet and Emma should be a couple instead of her and Knightley. Most of what I read boils down to people taking things out of context and/or claims that Harriet is ‘better’ for Emma just because she’s a woman and she agrees with her all the time, while Mr Knightley is the bad guy because he’s older than her (he’s only 37, btw) and criticizes her ( as if Emma doesn’t need someone to criticize her, and her character growth isn’t dependent on precisely that). I get some people wouldn’t like to have someone who is criticizing them but worshiping someone is =/= being their friend or appreciating their real qualities. I also read people point up how much Emma praises Harriet in the book as proof that she’s in love with her, but the same ignore the many instances, especially after Harriet tells her that she loves Mr Knightley, that truly show Emma’s real colors and how much she still considers Harriet her, and especially Mr Knightley’s, inferior to the extent she regrets their friendship and thinks Harriet is ‘uppity’ for thinking Mr Knightley would ruin his reputation to marry someone like her. When I read those arguments it seems, if anything, that people want to have the cake and eat it by saying that Austen’s own story doesn’t matter (and she doesn’t understand her characters’ real feelings) when it comes to the things those people don’t like (eg the fact Knightley is the one Emma is in love with and all the explicit hints about that ), all the while still selectively using some of her writing to support their alternative version of the story. Now with the last movie adaptation, it’s even worse for me. It’s telling that the two scenes people romanticize as pro Emma/Harriet are two phrases/moments that actually emphasize the bad side of their relationship, and why their friendship isn’t good for either of them. The first is the scene when Emma says she ‘wants to keep Harriet for herself’: not only there is nothing romantic about that ( that line is in the book too as well as Knightley’s ‘your infatuation is blinding you’. You are reading a book written in 1800 with modern goggles though, and that alone doesn’t really work) but that phrase should actually make you cringe for it emphasizes how selfish and manipulative Emma is by treating Harriet like her new pet project just because she’s lonely. She doesn’t care about the girl’s feelings for Robert Martin, and what is truly the best for her due to her rank (and how dangerous it actually is for Harriet to not marry and find someone who can offer her protection), even if it’s what she tells herself, she only cares about her own desire to have a new female friend because she lost Mrs Weston and she feels lonely and bored. It’s also true, though, that she is still lying to Mr Knightley too because she does actually want to match Harriet with Mr Elton, that which is obvious in the other scenes, but even that is an expression of Emma’s selfishness and not really a hint of her caring, let alone loving, Harriet as a human at this point. If you read the book, it’s particularly obvious given the fact that Emma isn’t blind about Harriet’s feelings for Robert Martin for she knows that her behavior is bad and the girl actually cares about the guy, but she manipulates her into thinking Mr Elton is better because it’s her choice and she prefers him (until he proposes to her, of course. Then she thinks Mr Elton is trash for being so arrogant to believe someone of his rank could marry her) The second phrase people romanticize is only in the last movie and it’s that annoying ‘I refused Robert Martin because of you’ phrase by Harriet later in the movie. I hate that because, once again, that phrase has nothing ‘romantic’ about it unless you obviously ignore the context and what is actually happening there. Harriet is being passive aggressive with Emma there, gaslighting her and blaming her for the loss of her first suitor BECAUSE HARRIET WANTS MR KNIGHTLEY for herself. Harriet is angry with Emma there because she realizes she loves Mr Knightley TOO and Emma has more chances than her. The most likely sentiment behind that flippant phrase for me is something along the lines of Harriet impulsively telling Emma to move aside and let her have Mr Knightley because she made her lose Robert Martin already. She is trying to make Emma feel guilty, subconsciously or deliberately, but this surely is how Emma herself perceives Harriet’s words too for the poor girl really thinks it makes her a bad person to accept Knightley’s proposal in spite of loving him back. Harriet made her believe she was stealing her man and yet, AND YET, had Harriet been a real friend, to begin with, she should’ve realized Emma’s feelings for him way before she deluded herself into thinking the guy wanted her. But Harriet never cares about Emma’s feelings and even their reconciliation in the end is all, still, about what Emma needs to do for her. Not a word from Harriet about being happy for her friend too. Nothing.

Listen, I really appreciate de Wilde’s attempt to make the Harriet/Emma dynamic better than it is in either the novel or other adaptations, even if it personally doesn’t convince me it’s friendship. But I get it. Like I said at the beginning, it’s important that movies display different kinds of love too beside romance and if you can’t do that with characters like Emma who are the protagonist then when you can even do that? I think it was valid for her and Catton to want to emphasize the fact that Emma, at her core, is truly young and lonely and she doesn’t have friends in the truest sense of the word (Mr Knightley is one, of course, but their point is more about her having a female companion too whom Emma could do more ‘girl’ things she can’t do with her husband or father) but, honestly, I maintain no adaptation ever truly got their relationship right. No one. Overrating them and pretending that they are best friends forever when there is no substance for that is as incorrect as an interpretation of Austen’s writing as it is treating Harriet as a silly girl Emma barely tolerates. I appreciate the movie shows Emma’s conflict about Harriet when Knightley proposes to her because most of adaptations don’t do that: in the book she really, for a moment, feels so bad for Harriet and feels simultanously happy Mr Knightley loves her but also bad for taking the guy Harriet wants. She is no hero who wants to give up about him to let Harriet have the guy instead, though, but it isn’t like she doesn’t care either. She does and it’s a source of anguish for Emma and part of her character growth that she actually cares and feels empathy for Harriet.

However, if you want Emma to have a real female friend that’s not Harriet and that’s not really the story Austen wrote and the role she gave to Harriet. Like many academics pointed up, like many of Emma’s ‘mirrors’ in the story, Harriet is put there by Austen to emphasize Emma’s immaturity at the beginning and the fact she deliberately doesn’t choose her equals as friends and picks Harriet, instead, as her new pet project because her inferiority makes her easier to manipulate and, like Mr Knightley very eloquently points up, she makes Emma feel superior and more accomplished than she is. Emma doesn’t want to be friends with Jane, for example, because not only she could be more her equal but she actually does see her as superior in the aspects that make Emma the most vulnerable and insecure.

It’s great the movie gave more space to Emma’s relationship with Harriet, and I get that if you want to put the spotlight on female friendship too it’s either Harriet or Mrs Weston but also, let’s not pretend the movie wasn’t focused very much on her romance with Mr Knightley too, perhaps more than other adaptations did. People commend this adaptation for showing his feelings for her more and it’s true, but I will also argue that this movie does emphasize her feelings for him more than adaptations usually do for you really see Emma’s feelings and jealousy towards him before she even realizes her feelings. It’s obvious since their first scene when she’s waiting for him and runs to her piano because she wants to get noticed by him. Her breath constantly hitches when he’s close to her or because of her feelings for him, and she definitely reacts to dancing with him. She may not know her feelings from the start, she might be in her own ‘work in progress’ to figure everything out, but the movie makes it obvious to me that she loves him. If there is any adaptation where you want to be disingenuos about their chemistry and deny their romance, this really isn’t the one tbh. Look, if you want to headcanon Emma as bisexual you’ll find me agreeing with you, but pro LGBT readings and actual representation doesn’t mean, for me, shipping two characters together just because they are the same gender and the writers make them care about each other a bit, or give them screentime. Like I said at the beginning, if I wanted a gay adaptation of Emma I’d rather make Mr Knightley a woman than ship Emma with Harriet or Mrs Weston or Jane. Because regardless their genders, it’s the Knightley character the one Emma loves and wants to be with, and it’s this character who truly represents her best friend and the person who knows her best. It’s Knightley the only one who cares about her well being so much that when she is being the worst version of herself and no one cares, he is the one willing to tell her even if he hates doing that and he feels he’s destroying every chance he has to make her love him back. It’s the Knightley character who ultimately inspires her to be a better person and loves her in spite of her flaws.

#emma 2020 #emma woodhouse #emma #harriet smith #mr knightley #emma x knightley #may delete later but I needed to rant because some of you are getting old

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