#((masculinity is so weird and wild i love to study it its so fucked up. frat culture is insane and i have so so much to say about it))

[demyrie]

On the Resourcefulness, Intelligence and Grit of Fic Writers

My beta and starmate @rainbowstarbird and I have been writing fic since we were preteens. I specifically remember straining, in my seat, toward my screen and my 13th birthday so that I could Very Legally sign up for ff/net. Wild, right?

We are also students of narrative, specifically radical queer storytelling. One of our favorite things to do is go on errands (we’re old be quiet) and just brainstorm ideas with characters we love where they share our identities and struggles and do things we need or want to see. Or just ... get kinda horny, as today.

Rae exclaimed at some poor driving on our way to the house and accidentally said “room for two” and our brains went south, toward the double penetration line of thinking. We laughed, and laughed, and then Rae shrieks MAKE IT A PORN, GO and thus began the game.

Me: uhhh uhhh uhhh OH OH okay so, it’s!!! a bed and breakfast!!! and the hot married owners court and seduce a guest and DP them! ROOM!! FOR!!! TWO!!! it works on both levels!

Rae: Aaaaaaaa someone hasn’t made this a porn yet?! make it a fic!

and we did.

Me: oh shit who’s an OT3 we can play with?

Rae: WHITE COLLAR 

(for those who don’t know, White Collar is a delicious drama action procedural show where a white collar FBI agent, Peter, teams up with one of the greatest con men ever. A con man he’s tailed for YEARS, by the way, that HE put in jail, and together they solve art crimes and slowly rehabilitate Neal. Peter is amazing, soft soulful masculinity to a t, and has a very frank, beautiful, nurturing wife named Elle who is also amazing and Neal has never belonged anywhere and there is a LOT of tension as Neal edges closer and closer to letting himself be loved but then NOPES out to return to his scammer ways. The cast joked about a threesome. It’s heavy. Both Peter and Elle would do anything for Neal, and struggle with his inability to believe he’s worth love. Its. Ugh.)

Me: YES!!! SO!!! to theme, it would have to be married couple Peter and Elle running a cute little Bed and Breakfast that Neal stumbles upon and then he gets fuuuuuuuuucked

Rae: But I want peter to be a FBI agent?? Who is he, if not a lawman?

Me: AH! RETIRED cop/FBI agent peter, swayed into peaceful AND swanky bed and breakfast life by his canonically talented event designer wife Elle in the hopes of giving him some calm and space to come to grips with himself

Rae: YES! AS HE DEALS WITH HIS PTSD. his career took a slightly darker turn -- we can take one of the harder cases and imagine how it would have gone without Neal and how it would have shook him -- and necessitated a retirement from the field.

Me: and Neal is very off his track. He broke up with whatserface. Maybe he just got out of prison, or narrowly squirmed out of it after one of his art blackmail schemes went south. He doesn’t know whether he wants to go back to crime/art forgery, but he’s out of money and out of ideas and he pulls up at this small unassuming (BUT VERY TASTEFUL) bed and breakfast and immediately tries to scam Elle with a fake credit card to stay the night. 

Rae: Yes, he’s charming, but he’s off his game due to the recent upset and fumbles the delivery. Peter scents it immediately, being a cop, but Elle takes pity on him and just says honey let it be. Maybe he’s having some trouble. She’s so nurturing, and says ‘remember what we talked about in therapy, Pete?’ and frames it as letting go of hypervigilance, and being more centered like they’re learning in therapy. Because they need therapy. And the idea of a sexy older established couple openly talking and communicating to deal with their pain but also their boundaries is amazing. But also it’s hilarious how it becomes “Neal is a walking test of Peter’s ability to Calm Down” because Elle leverages it like REMEMBER? THERAPY? and Peter stomps off flustered and lets her get her way just like in the show

Me: yes and so they get attached to poor lost Neal, and extend and extend his stay night after night while he figures things out. so of course everyone gets to talking. Peter feels his Old Buried Gay Feelings awakening with such a beautiful guy hangin out, bein’ all charming and sweet -- which is an opportunity to bring up the “remember what we talked about in therapy?” line in a different context, a la dealing with neglected parts of ourselves and not just “problem” parts of ourselves to create a WHOLE self -- and Elle spots it from a mile away, as well as Neal crushing right back but being on his best behavior with this awesome couple just sorta letting him live with them. 

Rae: YES, like, he doesn’t want to mess this up, and he’s also not used to ... being good. Behaving. Or ... being trusted. All of this is fucking him up on a lot of levels, bringing him face to face with his hollow conceptions of self-worth, and it’s delicious. They LOVE HIM. and there’s so much angst about him dying to confess that he never really had the money to stay here in the first place, that he tried to scam them, as a metaphor for his intrinsic worthlessness.

Me: yes. they love him. And then they love him. At the same time. DP. Room for two.

[screams, high-fives, then contented silence. horny, contended silence]

Rae: But wait. ... it’s ... DP?

Me: *shrugs* Elle gives the strap. You know she does.

Rae: holy shit she do. DONE ITS A THING WE MADE A THING WOOOOOO

SO!

This is why fanfiction is magic. We took these characters and fit them to a cheap porn scenario just for the hell of it, and yet its much more than a scenario, and so much more than fitting a square peg into a round hole. It’s about the characters interacting AROUND AND WITHIN the scenario, the way all of their problems and complexes interlock in the new setting or AU, which enriches the scene and lends it emotional weight and momentum. It’s that amazing quote about “i don’t want porn in my LOTR, but LOTR in my porn”, but obviously it doesn’t always have to be an explicit scenario to reflect this amazing ability to ADAPT, IMPROVISE, AND OVERCOME in order to create incredible content!

Fanfiction is about learning identities and ways of being. Fanfiction requires a top view of characterization and a grasp of narrative flow: The important components of a character, and how many parts you can tweak or change and it Still Be the Character. It delves into those weird grey areas where you see THOUSANDS of different iterations of a character and some of them hit the spot, and some don’t, and we learn what we like. What we value, personally, and in these characters, as well as how OTHER people see traits that become HCs that let us learn about those populations, like a prevailing hc that someone is trans, or deaf, or nonbinary, or a spoonie, or etc etc etc and our world view gets a little wider, a little richer, and a little more empathetic.

It also means understanding the tiers of characterization, like what are defining traits versus secondary traits, and thus what (environmental) aspects you can change to bring out secondary character traits but still retain the core of the character while exploring material never approached in the show, just because you want to. Because you see something of yourself in this character and want to SEE YOURSELF in this character. It is amazing. IT IS AMAZING.

Yes, fanfic is the ultimate sandbox for “for the sake of” fantasies/stories and part of the transformative value is there’s no real NEED to adhere to characterization. There’s no pressure. We can go wild. It’s a blank slate, IT’S WHATEVER, but I think we consistently underestimate how fanfiction itself is an adaptive and analytical gladiator-ring-slash-orgy that we can emerge from MASTERS of characterization, exploration and expression, and just about every day is a study of What We Like and What We Want to See. Even, or especially, if the higher ups aren’t gonna give it to us off the cuff.

It’s amazing. Fic is amazing. I dunno. I’m just super happy with this thing we do.

So if you’re feeling weird about that fic you want to write, don’t. Just do it!

Rae and I are gonna make a podcast where we talk about this stuff. I’m excited. You in? :)

#fanfiction #demyrie writes

[jd07201990]

Well, I guess there are worse fates than ending up the absolute epitome of a, “Prettyboy Meathead” who’s “All Brawn and no Brain” or a, “Smelly Brute”

You see, I used to be the captain of the Chess Club. Short, scrawny, specky redheaded beanpole with acne, a lisp, stuttering with anxiety. But now, They really did a number on me... Who’s they? The football team! That’s who! They’d been bullying me ever since I transferred to this school, having argued for home schooling instead, but losing out and ending up a freshman here. They targeted me right off the bat, first day, “fresh meat” as they called me, while throwing me into a dumpster. This repeated itself for a few weeks, until finally I’d had enough, and lost it.

Yup, I admit it, I lost it. Total tantrum. But I swear, I didn't mean to break the quarterback’s ankle! All I’d meant to do is... well, I mean I didn’t know what I meant to do, I just charged at him, screaming about how they were all just pretty trophy boys, worthless mindless meatheads, disgusting sweaty animals, plowing head first into his rock solid abs. We both went tumbling down the wheelchair ramp, myself stopped by a column, while he continued, crashing into a display case and howling in a deep rumbling rage.

That afternoon, when the nurse and the ambulance EMT’s concurred that his ankle was shattered in 2 places, taking him off the roster for the big game and chance at the championship, the team was not so thrilled with me. Hell, the whole damn school wanted to lynch me! I had to leave early, my parents getting a phone call to pick me up. I was reamed out the whole way home. My mother nearly had an asthma attack she was screeching so loud.

My dad, while still joining in on the reaming, seemed almost, proud. There was a little shimmer in his eye that I’d never seen before. It lasted only a second though as my mom hit her stride and went into full parental meltdown. I’d never seen her this angry.

Only a day passed before we got a call from the school. I was expelled, unless my parents and I agreed to a few demands. My mother, trying to save my academic career, agreed before even hearing them. My dad though, agreed to a meeting with the Principal, and oddly, the coach of the Football team.

Heading over to the school was like a motorized death march. The car ride dead silent, treading into the school and down to the Sports offices where both the Coach and Principal were having a heated debate. I only caught a blurb or two before they noticed us and quieted down. Something about “coach’s special training”

I found out during the hour long meeting, that the Coach had me in mind for replacing Blake, the Quarterback I’d taken off the field. Everyone, including the principal had their reasons as to why I couldn’t, myself as well, but Coach wouldn’t have it. He claimed that he could have me in playing condition before the big game, and, if I played, I could keep going to school, the expulsion would be voided.

Again, my mom agreed fully, signing the forms before my dad could stop her. My dad though, asked questions. The answered were vague, everything was about “focus, drive, determination, and making up for my mistakes” After a good 25 minute spiel, my dad too signed the form, signing my academic life away to a man who was quite literally an entire team’s worth of brawn packed into one.

Long story short, the game was in 6 weeks. My training started immediately, as well as a strict diet, supplements that coach provided, all of my study halls and my time on the chess team was forfeited to Coach, during which I was to watch football videos and take notes.

Weird thing is, after a few videos and days taking the supplements, I couldn't really take notes... Strange, as I’d been a straight A Student. I just couldn’t. It was too boring. Even stranger, I couldn’t sit still. My body felt jolted and alive, my muscles aching and warm, feeling like they were going to burst off of me. I sat, squirming in my seat watching the videos, mindlessly taking in the plays, when, day by day, my body seemed to change.

First came the sweat. No matter how little I was active. Even just sitting at school or home, I was sweating, sometimes profusely. Soaking through my clothes, and, rather embarrassingly, stinking through my deodorant and body wash. by day 3, I reeked, constantly, I could smell myself. People noticed as well, the football team calling me stinky, and Jockstrap. Others moved away from me in the halls, or left seats empty near me in classes. However, sometimes I’d catch some of the prettier girls, especially the ditzy Barbie type, taking side glances at me, their eyes lingering on me for a moment before shaking their heads and running off giggling

Then came the muscle spasms and odd unexplained growth spurts. I was a late bloomer, short and thin. but each passing day added a bit of height, a bit of weight, becoming more solid and dense. I had one night in particular where I woke up screaming in pain as my body cracked and expanded, until I’d ended up a week later, 6′2″ 140lbs or so, looking solid, but not brawny. Well, not brawny, YET.

After the growth spurts, the videos lessened, and it was time for on field practice. Alone at first, then with the team. I can’t remember most of it, Coach would say something strange to me, and I’d lose track of time, waking up dazed and dizzy in the locker room with a towel around my waist, wet from the shower, or naked soaping up my body mindlessly as the hot water boiled away my thoughts.

I noticed now that I had bushy, wiry hair under my arms, and a dense collection around my groin, which, after the 4rth practice wearing a cup, felt packed and swollen. Each night I was jerking off load after load, feeling as if each jet caused my balls to swell and churn, until after a week, I had a veritable salami between my legs, with egg sized nuts in a musky, furry sack. The team took notice too, and started calling me Donkey. a nickname that encompassed my densely packed bulk, my large pendulous cock, and the always constant reek of musty stink coming off my body.

It was at this point that my mother tried to stop the whole thing. She cried when she watched my grades plummet, watched me get bigger, brawny and brutish, while out nightly dinner talks about the day and world news skidded to a halt, replaced by football, coach, the team, girls. My dad however, loved every moment! He’d even helped me move out all of my nerdy crap from my room, to replace it with a  weight bench and a shelf for future trophies.

After practiced and the changed to my body, coach had me work up my arms to beefy, thick bulging dense pythons, my biceps rounded, with a vein running down its length even at resting. My chest as well, widened my shoulders and held my pads up like a statue. I was quite built now, lumbering round at about 162lbs, when he stopped me after a grueling workout, held my head in his hands and said it was time for the last details in my reparations for ruining his star player.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, as he brought out a tin with gel inside, a pair of cleats that looked about 4 sizes too big, and a jockstrap and cup that seemed to pulsate menacing in his hand. without pause, he greased up his gloved hands and smeared the gel into my hair. it burned, and smelled of sulfur. I thought he was going to make me bald! Until I felt my hair thickening, rustling on its own with the gel mixing with my sweat, leaving me with an oddly boyish, yet decidedly bro-like Bieber cut. I could see my reflection in one of the mirrors, my hair was that of one of those pretty boys you see on TV! Thick and luscious, styled perfectly to the side, it’d stay like this without effort, as I found out soon after.

Then he forced me to sit on the bench behind me, took off my size 12 workout sneakers, tossed them across the room into a bin for lost and found items, and stuffed my feet into the huge cleats he’d brought in. My bare foot sunk into the sole of the cleat, feeling its warm, slimy texture. It felt like it’d recently been warn by a whole team during a month’s worth of games and practices. My feet itched intensely, all I could do was grunt In protest as the material seemed to tighten around my toes. Odd though, they didn't seem to be moving. Hearing a few harsh, cracking pops and feeling searing pain in my feet, then a disgusting, foul smell rising upward, Coach took the cleats off, and I was staring down at a pair of size 16 boats. Long splayed toes shining with sweat in the fluorescent lighting, stinking up the room, looking masculine and raunchy. He covered his nose with his collar and muttered, “fucking athlete’s foot, always brutal” as I felt the burning sensation between my toes.

Then, as I tried to use my new strength to break Coach’s hold on me, he pulled down my gym shirts, then my jockstrap, letting my hefty, hairy meat free. He wolf whistled, giving me a wink as he slipped the jockstrap up my legs, then stuffed the cup in the pouch, hefting my cock and balls into it. I was right, it was pulsating! It felt like it was gripping my package, squeezing hard, then letting go, repeating over and over rhythmically. As it did so, I could feel my balls churning up a thick, heavy load, while a sudden head rush seemed to knock my brain out of my skull. I felt high, dizzy, horny, as my entire body seemed to warm up, then it felt like I was boiling on the inside, as a dim, dull rag seemed to fill my head. I felt my crotch start to itch, and a burning in my throat. I grunted, them moaned, my voice cracking harshly upward, embarrassingly, before dropping low and dumb, a deep, dim sounding baritone rumble.

M head filled with thoughts of wild, aggressive games, fucking like a stallion, working out till I couldn’t move, all while the cup seemed to milk up a steady drizzle of precum that, I’d find out later, would continue to pour from me at the slightest thought of passing glance of a pretty chick. I felt the need to pound my opponents into the dirt on the field, my whole body in fire, as coach whispered all my new desperate desires for sports, sex, being a man, filling me with pent up needs. Then, he ripped the jock and cup off me as my eyes rolled back in my head, told me to get changed into the outfit you see above, for my Team photo in the yearbook. I grunted, “fuck yeah” and dressed, stating at the Smelly brute, with the pretty boy good looks and dim, no brains behind the eyes state, as he took my photo, and I filled my pants with cum.