Ahem…*taps mike* is this on? Good.
Since I’m seeing a rash of “reblog if…” posts…
- YES I would care if you deleted your blog
- YES this blog supports equal rights for *EVERYONE*
- YES cancer sucks
- YES feminism benefits males too
- NO I’m not going to generally clutter my dash with it.
- IF you want to judge me for not reblogging whatever, go for it. I can’t stop you.
Think that about covers it.
Good Boys, Good Girls
"Vincent is a good boy," Siri remarks over the coffee; doctor Frobisher echoes while leaving the gym and Kahlee oozes from every pore while not saying a word. Vincent himself apologizes profoundly, and repeatedly, blushing and stammering just like the first time he ever talked to her.
And Jack is fuming, inside. Fuck, I know, you know?
That’s what he wants, right?
That’s what every man always wants, right? Every man. Even Shepard…
He didn’t make the move, though. I did. Both times. He…
His hands, sweaty, holding too tight, the smell of whiskey on his breath, his lips, pressing.
Vincent. A friend. A good boy.
Soft brown eyes, intelligent but soft. Puppy eyes, as he was apologising. Hurt eyes, even though Jack assured him that she didn’t held a thing against him. And hopeful, in a desperate way.
The fuck am I supposed to do now? ‘Just friends’ though we both know that’s no longer true? Or give him a prize fuck just because he is a good boy and deserves one? Or two or three, if I like it?
Pacing across her quarters, Jack is softly cursing, kicking her bed every now and then. She likes Vincent alright, she does, but she doesn’t want to fuck him, not really. She could, of course, it’s just that she doesn’t feel particularly compelled to, beyond the mere fact that she hasn’t had a fuck for ages and definitely could use some. In this respect, Vincent would do. He might even be happier for that.
A good boy.
Jack stops in the middle of the room, biting her lip.
He would be happy if he got the fuck he wants, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?
A thought she’d never thought before drives her teeth so deep that they nearly draw blood. What happens next?
Those soft, brown, adoring eyes.
Let’s say we do… have sex. What happens if he thinks that there is more to it? If he thinks -
'I want you, not a fuck.’
"Screw you, Shepard!" she yells at the top of her lungs, not giving two shits who may overhear. Her corona flares, the chair hits the wall. "Screw you!”
Panting, she leans against her thighs.
Vincent is a good boy. He doesn’t deserve…
After that, she slumps on her bed, tears softly flowing as the old wound reopened, but deep inside she knows that while she doesn’t absolve Shepard of anything, she made the move.
At this late date, fanfiction has become wildly more biodiverse that the canonical works that it springs from. It encompasses male pregnancy, centaurification, body swapping, apocalypses, reincarnation, and every sexual fetish, kink, combination, position, and inversion you can imagine and probably a lot more that you could but would probably prefer not to. It breaks down walls between genders and genres and races and canons and bodies and species and past and future and conscious and unconscious and fiction and reality. Culturally speaking, this work used to be the job of the avant garde, but in many ways fanfiction has stepped in to take that role. If the mainstream has been slow to honor it, well, that’s usually the fate of aesthetic revolutions. Fanfiction is the madwoman in mainstream culture’s attic, but the attic won’t contain it forever.
Anne Jamison. Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World. 2013
She’s baffling – absolutely unlike any other woman Vincent has met, and he can’t figure her out. She is a tough military professional, yet he can’t really imagine her wearing a uniform; she’s strong and self-confident, yet there are moments when she seems clueless, almost like a child… and the next moment she handles her students with ease and natural authority. She is jaded, even cynical, but when she entered the dining hall, decorated for the Christmas party, she paused with such a weird look…
Baffling. Vincent tries to imagine her as a child, to picture her when she was six, or sixteen, but without success; he is unable to erase her tattoos and scars.
He wonders what sort of childhood she had – he even made the mistake, once, to ask, and immediately knew he had overstepped, and never dared again.
Even now he doesn’t dare: half-hidden behind the huge artificial Christmas tree, all silver and gold, electric candles and chains and stars, he watches while the others are dancing, everyone: the students, the staff… Jack.
Watching her dance, he doesn’t hear the generic dancing tune but another one, a haunting old melody he learned during the course of Biblical studies which he picked out of despair, after Susan left him.
Tender and treacherous
Timid and dangerous
Flame and the red of dawn
Angel and devil’s pawn
Sugar and salt.
Jack dances, her eyes shining, her lips red like Salome’s. Her lips…
When the party is over, everyone is hugging and kissing and wishing ‘Merry Christmas’, and when his turn comes, he wants more than a peck on the cheek. His hands hold on a moment too long, bolder for all the whisky that he has drunk, and he knows that he has overstepped again. Helplessly, he waits for yet another ‘just friends’ look, but then Jack kisses him on the mouth, thoroughly, and hugs him tight. “Merry Christmas, Vincent, and thanks for everything.”
"Merry Christmas, Jack," he replies automatically as she pulls away and leaves, walking with that feline grace. All the Christmas glamour seems suddenly dulled. His head is spinning and the next thing he knows, he is very, very sick, behind the Christmas tree, and Siri is supporting him and manoeuvring him away, muttering something. Her voice is surprisingly gentle but all he hears is the Salome song:
Tempting in candlelight
For the king’s sole delight
The whisky spills into his eyes because he knows that the king is another and he doesn’t stand a chance, yet again.
Comes the morning with the inevitable retribution, he wishes that someone cut off his head just like the Baptist’s, for her.
Salome (translation mine, original text by Karel Kryl)