Kevin (erf_) wrote,

  • Music:

meddling in the affairs of slashers (fanfiction fanfiction)

Earlier this year, out of good-natured annoyance at the growing pretentiousness of Internet slash fandom, especially RPS, I wrote a satirical work of erotic fanfiction about erotic fanfiction writers. It has been sitting on my hard drive for about half a year now, and so far no one has read it but me.

Me 1: Oh dear goodness, don't you dare show this to anyone. You love fangirls. If you ever publish this anywhere on the Internet, even LiveJournal, this will ensure that you will never have sex with one. Ever.
Me 2: And this would be different from my current situation how?
Me 1: Point taken.

Warning: Not even remotely safe for work.


Mary-Sue's cell phone had barely managed to shriek one tinny, shrill "VE-"--the first syllable of One Winged Angel-- before she had her fingers wrapped around the thing, clawing furiously at the snooze button. She flung it onto the queen-sized thermapedic mattress on the floor, a nice backhand flick, where it bounced and came to rest under a bedsheet.

She swiveled her chair back around in the darkness, returning her attention to her open laptop, and sighed. A crudely sketched Sephiroth scowled at her from underneath a dozen and a half Firefox tabs, his face contorted in that hot badass glare even as his thin supervillain lips struggled against a disembodied penis. Two in the morning? Already? Fuck. She had class tomorrow. She knew she had class tomorrow. She had, in fact, set her alarm to go off right now because she knew she'd be sitting at her desk doing this again instead of preparing for class tomorrow.

But that was then. And cute boys making out was now.

She closed a few tabs, partly out of embarrassment (to whom? she was running a proxy; no one would be able to monitor her web traffic), partly out of half- assed compromise. Her favorite midnight-blue top clung tenaciously to her hips, glued to the skin with sweat, despite the blast of cold wind pouring out of the air conditioner in her window. On the fabric tented between her breasts, the little red </3 symbol fluttered in the icy breeze. She adjusted her bra strap uncomfortably, allowing the soft cotton to stretch across her smooth, otaku-pale skin. A year ago she had bought this shirt as an ironic statement, but now it was starting to look like self-fulfilling prophecy. How many months had it been now?

The bra, too. Mary-Sue traced her fingers around the sides of her disappointingly ordinary breasts. She would never suffer the indignity of wearing a push-up bra, when a simple grey underwire would do, but she was worried no boy would ever notice her like this. Not at a school with a cheerleading team, at least.

She switched to another tab, where the image of Christopher Pine, his Captain Kirk shirt stretched tight across his warm, firm abs, flicked his tongue across his lips over and over in an endless loop. Her nipples perked. At least she still had her Internet boyfriends. Her Internet boyfriends never leered, never judged, never brushed her off. They were always there when she needed them and never there when she wanted them away.

CP stared at her longingly from the other side of the screen, and she met his gaze, lost in his cool smirk and his intense, passionate green eyes. Her hands almost instinctively wandered down to her muff. Halfway down the page a chorus of fangirl squeals sounded off in the comments section. "OMG. SO. HOT. GOING PREGNANT WITH THE HOTNESS." "CAN'T THINK STRAIGHT. TOO MUCH SEXY." "MY LADY BITS ASPLODE!!"

A gentle, sad smile crept upon Mary-Sue's lips, her face aglow in the monitor's phosphoresence. She lay back in her chair and relaxed, eyes closed, her index finger gently tracing her snatch through her grey cotton panties. Sweet, sweet Internet. Where else could a girl make friends with other girls over hot guys, instead of fighting over them? Not that she had any experience with that kind of thing or anything. Oh no.

Which reminded her. If she was going to be up all night, she might as well do something productive. There was a half a six-pack of Jolt waiting for her in the fridge; she pried loose a can, set it on her desk, and popped it open. The thought of tying on the white bandanna she had hanging in her cosplay closet struck her as ridiculous, so she tied on an imaginary one instead. Tonight, Mary-Sue was all about the srs bzness.

She was going to finish that 10,000 word cute!Depp/Pine RPS novelette for that new ontd_omnislash contest.

After scanning for new stories that might have changed her fanon--there were none, today--she drew up Microsoft Word, where 6,395 words of gentle nuzzling, cuddling and sodomy rose to greet her. In the darkness, sitting on a bookshelf at the edge of her peripheral vision, above that Orange Road collection she hadn't read since high school, her plush mudkip quietly judged her. "Fuck you, mudkip," she said aloud, grinning. "Ficcers' time to play."

This was a difficult task for her. She had never taken a creative writing class--maybe she should--but she knew that slash fiction was all too easy to do poorly and very challenging to do well. She had put Johnny and Chris on an ice floe in the north Atlantic, where they had to get naked and rub their bodies against one another to stay warm, in a scene that was as hilarious as it was romantic. How were they going to get out of this predicament? Should Chris slide off the floe in a state of lubricated catatonia, prompting the bold and reckless Depp to leap into the water and save him, only to succumb to the icy seas himself, allowing the two of them to wash up ashore on some distant beach, entangled in one another's arms? Should they be rescued by rival pirates, only to be tied up and gang-raped deliciously by the dashing, studmuffinly crew? Or maybe...Spock could beam down from the Enterprise, mistaking Chris for the real Captain Kirk, and offer them rescue, under the sole condition that they teach him what it meant to love.

No. Ick. Mary-Sue took a swig of Jolt. All of that had been done before.

Fuck it. She'd just let them cuddle for a few more pages, and let the muse take it from there.

"You know what, Johnny?" said Chris, his slim, toned biceps glistening with condensation as he leaned against the wall of the igloo.
"No, Chris," said Johnny lackadaisically, averting his gaze from Chris's beautiful green eyes. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"
Chris seized Johnny's face by the chin and gently turned it towards his. Johnny gasped, and went weak in the knees--it was like looking into the very eyes of the Medusa.
"These," said Chris, brushing his fingers down Johnny's fine silk pantaloons, "have been the most beautiful ten days of my life." He cast his gaze to the ground. "I know this is hard for you, because...because we're so different, you know? But make it so absolutely, magnificently special."
"At your service," Johnny said, breathing heavily. He managed a silly grin, and traced a long, nimble finger down Chris's bare chest. "It's what I do best."
They embraced, Chris's rock-hard body grunting against Johnny's slim, toned figure. A single drop of cold water dripped from an ice block on the ceiling, falling into Johnny's tousled black hair. Chris looked up at it and smiled. "I guess someone's going to have to lick that away..."

A loud knock on the door disturbed Mary-Sue from her erotic reverie, sending an electric shiver up her spine. She hooked her bra strap back onto her shoulder, working her breathing rhythm back to a normal pace. Her long brown hair, messy and uncombed, brushed uncomfortably against her shoulders as she got up to answer the door. Fuck, she thought. Who the hell could that be? At this hour?

"Who the f--Oh. Oh! Hi!"

It was Brian.

Brian Martin Stuart, the cute boy from down the hall, who she had gone for cupcakes with after anime club.

Holding a box set of the first season DVDs for Battlestar Galactica.

"Hi," he said to her, smiling, somewhat nervously.

"Hi," she said, brushing her hair away from her face.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"I, uh," started Brian, darting his gaze down the hall. "I just wanted to say hello, and your light was on, so I thought you might want a break from your paper--Is this a bad time?"

"Would you like to come in?" Mary-Sue said, quickly checking to make sure her jeans were buttoned.

"Yeah," Brian said, scratching at the shock of slick, dark hair that rose from his head. "Yeah, that would be...great." Mary-Sue idly wondered if he had just come out of the shower, or had gelled his hair for specifically this occasion. It looked stupid--but it was cute.

She opened the door quickly--perhaps a little too quickly--and, as unsuspiciously as possible, scrambled to her laptop and killed Word dead. Behind her he clambered into her room, his warm, rough forearms dangling out of his tight black Dinosaur Comics t-shirt, and with an adorable lack of grace dropped his ass right on her bed. He gently ran a hand down the side of his khakis, smoothing them out, and leaned forward, legs spread, elbows between his knees, hands loosely folded above his crotch. There was, to Mary-Sue's simultaneous relief and disappointment, no bulge.

"Nice room," he said.

"Yeah," said Mary-Sue. "I mean...thanks." Her eyes darted across the dozens of anime posters plastered across her walls, and a small stab of panic shot through her lungs as she realized she still had fujiyoshi_sama's gift sketch of Dick Grayson and Nightcrawler kissing by her window, and oh her God, Brian was staring right at it.

"I, um, I have a paper to write," started Mary-Sue,"but it's really not that important--I mean, it's only twenty percent of my grade--"

"I know," said Brian, grinning shyly. His eyes. His gorgeous sapphire blue eyes. She couldn't stop staring into them. "Anth 201, right? I'm in your class, remember?"

"Yeah," said Mary-Sue, a little embarrassedly, "I'm a little behind."

"Not your fault," he said, "Professor Richards is such a bitch. I mean, she gave us, what, less than a week? For research and everything?"

"Seriously!" said Mary Sue. "I knowwww!"

"So, yeah, I'm not done either. Aww, this little guy is cute! Can I hold him?" From the foot of the bed he picked up Chocobie, Mary-Sue's plush chocobo, and cradled it in his lap like a kitten, gently stroking its soft, tufted crest. "I've been having a pretty tough time with it, too, and I remembered you from anime club and figured you could use a, you know, a distraction."

"I could always use a distraction, I mean, us sophomores, you know, we gotta stick together," said Mary Sue, tilting her head a little too far and twirling her hair around her finger. The loose ends frayed and split, and she let them drop. "How did you know I liked Battlestar?"

"Intuition," said Brian, grinning devilishly.

Mary-Sue plucked Kuponuts off the top of her desk and catapulted it at him. Brian raised Chocobie as a shield and there was a soft paf as plushie struck plushie and Kuponuts bounced across the room. She dove for Kuponuts and struck Brian over the face with it, keeling him over, laughing, his firm, sock-clad feet dangling in the air.

"Don't lie to me!" giggled Mary-Sue. "You've been Facebook-stalking me, haven't you?"

Brian seized Chocobie and playfully swatted her across the face with it. She leaned down across the bed and a pillow fight ensued. His lean, toned pectorals rippled ever so slightly every time she struck him across the chest, and once or twice the dirty son of a bitch grabbed Chocobie by the legs and shoved it into her tits. "You know," shouted Brian above the din of combat, "in some languages, 'intuition' is the word for 'internet.'"

"You're so full of shit, Brian," said Mary-Sue, flinging Kuponuts in his face. "Let's watch some Battlestar."

"You Cylon," said Brian, scooting backwards to lean against the wall. He handed her the pilot miniseries DVD, and the moment she turned to put the disc into her PlayStation 3 he lifted Chocobie off the bed and smacked her across the ass. She scowled, palming her butt reprimandingly, and leapt onto the bed next to him.

Not long after the previews began he put his arm around her waist, startling her with his brazenness, but his bare arms were warm and leathery and gentle, and Mary-Sue could not help but lean in and snuggle against his chest. It felt like resting against a pillow made of sunbeams. She felt oddly at peace.

"A secret," said Mary-Sue drowsily as the previews ended and the Feature Presentation placard flickered onscreen, "I've been Facebook-stalking you too."

His thin, gentle fingers brushed her arms. "I know," he whispered into her ear.

"Really," she said, arching an eyebrow. A flicker of passion trickled into her loins, slowly solidifying into that all-too-familiar ache. Affectionately she ran her hand down between the wall and his back, down that hard, strong spine, the lean taut muscles rising like butterflies out of his vertebrae, and felt him tremble ever so slightly as his free hand rose and came to rest on his thigh.

"It's lonely out here, isn't it," he whispered. "Late at night, like this."

On screen, negotiations had broken down and space diplomats were exploding. She had seen this part a bajillion times and would see it again a bajillion more, but for the very first time she couldn't bring herself to care. "Like you wouldn't believe," said Mary-Sue. "I'm so glad you came by, I mean--just sitting at my desk, working on my paper, alone--I really needed a friend like you."

She felt his sinewy cheekbones mat her hair, and it rustled as his fingers ran through it; her top felt tight and wet against her breasts. She could almost feel him smile--painfully, sadly. "A secret," he whispered, a hint of baritone rumbling up his throat. "I really needed a friend like you too."

Her heart went aflutter as he began to sing.

She could feel it as well as hear it--feel that strong, powerful voice coming out of his bosom, rumbling through his Adam's apple and down that stubbly cheek and off that peachfuzz tongue. He was merely humming at first, a stirring in his chest, rising up out of that gaunt, tight torso--but as he found the words his mouth gave them voice, in the flicking of his lips, in the darting of his tongue, softly, gently, his voice stumbling around the words and struggling to give them expression. And as he went on her heart leapt, as she realized it was a song she knew--a Japanese song, a love song from an obscure J-drama she had seen in high school, a song that no one she had ever met knew but her, for which she knew the words by heart despite not knowing a word of Japanese. And as he found the words so did she, and their voices were one, hers high and his low, and by the end his hand had somehow found hers.

On screen, starfighters were scrambling, and Number Six was whispering genocidal nothings into Dr. Baltar's ear. Cylon and human ships detonated spectacularly in a dazzling array of computer-generated fireworks. "Mark VII Vipers," whispered Brian, holding her close. "This is the best part."

"I want you," said Mary-Sue.

Brian kissed her across the forehead. "You can't imagine how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

Mary-Sue leaned away and eyed him warily. "You call that a kiss?" Mary-Sue exclaimed, and pushed him against the bed.

She watched his thin, strong hips bob against the bedsprings as he stared up at her bewilderedly. Not too quickly she leaned over, making sure to arch her back a little, and delighted in the lust and shock in his eyes as she lay on top of him gently, sealed her lips over his, and shot her tongue into his mouth. She had to suppress a gasp as the tight contours of his abs pressed against her breasts, and her hands explored down his shoulders, down his his sides, and came to rest on the taut, powerful angles of his pelvis, just above his rock-hard thighs. Passion ignited in her loins as she felt something long and hard press up against her pubis from the crotch of his pants, turning that too-familiar ache into screaming desire.

There was a moment of horror as she realized what she had done, that he was staring blankly into her eyes, oh her god, she had been too forward, he was going to leave and never want to see to her again and it was all her fault and she disengaged her lips and blushed and started mumbling an apology when he smiled, whispering affectionately, "You're so violent," and with one finger pulled her down by the neck of her top and drove his tongue hungrily into her mouth.

And all of a sudden she was in his arms again, tearing off his shirt and pulling down her jeans and ripping off his khakis, and her hands were exploring his face and his hair and his back and his ass and his thighs, and his fingers were tracing her neck, caressing the curve of her spine, down her arms, around the swell of her hips, cupping her ass, her panties felt damp against her snatch but she didn't care, his hands were lifting her top and exploring her breasts and lightly teasing the areolas, he was kissing her eyebrows and her cheeks and her temples, his fingers were heading lower, lower, her thighs were seizing his in a vise lock and his crotch was involuntarily grinding against hers, instinctively grinding against hers, her clit growing warm against the pressure of his cock against the cotton fabric of her panties and the emptiness in her slit yearning, yearning, and he gasped and moaned and she shrieked and hyperventilated and screamed fuck you Brian take me now.

And Brian stopped. Suddenly. And she stared at him in incomprehension and lust and fury and frustration, the sex draining away from her body like a cut bag of marbles, stared down at him lying immobile and half-naked with sweat glistening across his chest and his hard and throbbing cock wrapped tight in the thin white cotton of his briefs, his chest rising up and down, his breath ragged, with that same stupid grin on his face, staring into her eyes dumbly, like an enormous Ken doll, not moving. Not fucking her.

And Mary-Sue felt the tears well up in her eyes. "Why," she said, more of a statement than a question, because she already knew the answer.

With immeasurable gentleness, sympathy glimmering in his eyes above that rictus-like smirk, Brian reached his hand up to her crotch, pulled taut the elastic of her panties, traced a finger up her labia to her clitoris, and stroked it with a feather-light touch. "Because," he said apologetically. "Because."

The planet Caprica shattered in a spray of subatomic wrath behind her as she came, screaming, falling face first onto the bed. The coarse cotton-polyester blend of her sheets rose up to meet her as she fell, rough and awkward against her near-naked body. Her back arched, her knees buckled, her hips quivered; her fingers pressed against her clit and diving into her cleft of Venus felt pleasurable but not good. By the time she was done the end credits had already begun to roll, and she lay, numb, in a damp patch of her own girl-cum. On the far side of the wall Mary-Sue could hear the muffled gasps of her neighbors making love. The air conditioner whirred in the darkness. Brian was gone.

"Fuck," she screamed, sobbing into her pillow. She held Chocobie close, its plush feathers rough and uncomfortable against her erect nipples. "Fuck."

She lay alone for over an hour before she could bring herself to get out of bed.

Lethargically she wiped herself clean with a couple Kleenexes, pulled on her clothes, put the DVD back in its rental box, and flipped open her laptop. The taskbar clock read five in the morning. She had four hours. Her Anthropology 201 paper stared back at her, untouched and unfinished, quick-tabbed to 8,201 words of extremely prurient prose. She pried open the sheaf of electronic journal printouts that lay on her desk, thumbing through fifty pages of sources, and let it fall shut.

For the next few hours, there was no sound in her room but the clacking of her fingers against the keyboard.
Tags: internet people, writing
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded