Oh. Dear. I may have ficced myself.
rivers_bend linked me to this wonderful post where you can write a fic about your fantasy boyfriend. So I did!
Title: Who's Your Dada?
Rating: PG. Relax. There's no sex.
Triad: Misha Collins/Victoria Vantoch/Me
Warnings: Poetry, pretension, apple abuse, I'm in it for chrissakes.
Vicki’s a genius, an alive-n-kicking Guggenheim scholar with whom I have no business being on a non-profit board. Goddess knows why, but she gets a kick out of the way I fidget and flush with aggravation at certain lofty goals and mindless expressions of privilege, and nabs me to chat after the meeting ends. There’s coffee, over which we get the bright idea of resurrecting Woman of Power magazine, a gorgeous feminist rag that closed in the 80s. We keep having coffee and talking, talking, talking. There’s something about her that lets me pour out all my ideas without restraint; something in the way she turns her head and squints thoughtfully at me that tickles every creative nerve in my soul. Do we laugh!
She invites me to dinner at her place. The house is warm; between them, she and Misha have made virtually everything in the house, and everything is art, and so alive. Misha is quiet, but kind, pouring wine and talking about the project, asks if we’ll publish poetry. “Not yours,” I tease, and Vicki spits out a mouthful of merlot. She grabs my wrist and pulls me into the kitchen, hip checks me into the counter as she hands me a bunch of leeks.
“We’re so good together,” she whispers, and it makes my heart plunge into my stomach because of course they are, the genius and the social theorist/actor/poet/anarchist, and it takes everything in me not to tear up. Thank god leeks need lots of cleaning. She bumps into me again. “We are. You know it,” she murmurs, her elbow sharp against my forearm. The back of my neck prickles hot with need and jealousy, but I manage to blurt “You so are,” in a too-cheery parody of myself.
“She said we,” rumbles at the back of my head at same the moment a crimson macoun apple appears directly in front of my nose. Warm hips press into my back and I’m dimly aware of Vicki turning her face towards Misha’s for a chaste kiss. “Lifting belly is so necessary,” he says, and why wouldn’t their couplespeak be Gertrude Stein?
Vicki lifts my chin with her index finger and turns my face to hers. “Lifting belly is so kind,” she says, her dark eyes endless, fixed on me, daring me to play along. I’m blank as early snow; I couldn’t string words together if my life depended on it and is that her husband’s belt buckle pressing into my back?
“I can’t say it too often,” Misha purrs, tracing the apple over the curved neckline of my sweater, following along my breastbone with a warm fingertip. “Lifting belly. Extroardinary.”
The words tumble out, at last. “I…I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above. Those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not…”
“Love?” Vicki asks. She beams at me. Misha is laughing, a soft snorting sound, his chin heavy on my shoulder, the apple tucked beneath my right breast, which is pressed against Vicki’s slender side. “We are so good together,” she tells me.
Yes.
Yes we are.
Victoria Vantoch is an author, a Guggenheim and NASA scholar specializing in queer theory, and I want her. She renewed her wedding vows at Albertson's. In drag. ♥♥♥♥ And Women of Power did exist, and it was wonderful.
Poetry lines from Gertude Stein, Lifting Belly, W.B. Yeats, An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.
Title: Who's Your Dada?
Rating: PG. Relax. There's no sex.
Triad: Misha Collins/Victoria Vantoch/Me
Warnings: Poetry, pretension, apple abuse, I'm in it for chrissakes.
Vicki’s a genius, an alive-n-kicking Guggenheim scholar with whom I have no business being on a non-profit board. Goddess knows why, but she gets a kick out of the way I fidget and flush with aggravation at certain lofty goals and mindless expressions of privilege, and nabs me to chat after the meeting ends. There’s coffee, over which we get the bright idea of resurrecting Woman of Power magazine, a gorgeous feminist rag that closed in the 80s. We keep having coffee and talking, talking, talking. There’s something about her that lets me pour out all my ideas without restraint; something in the way she turns her head and squints thoughtfully at me that tickles every creative nerve in my soul. Do we laugh!
She invites me to dinner at her place. The house is warm; between them, she and Misha have made virtually everything in the house, and everything is art, and so alive. Misha is quiet, but kind, pouring wine and talking about the project, asks if we’ll publish poetry. “Not yours,” I tease, and Vicki spits out a mouthful of merlot. She grabs my wrist and pulls me into the kitchen, hip checks me into the counter as she hands me a bunch of leeks.
“We’re so good together,” she whispers, and it makes my heart plunge into my stomach because of course they are, the genius and the social theorist/actor/poet/anarchist, and it takes everything in me not to tear up. Thank god leeks need lots of cleaning. She bumps into me again. “We are. You know it,” she murmurs, her elbow sharp against my forearm. The back of my neck prickles hot with need and jealousy, but I manage to blurt “You so are,” in a too-cheery parody of myself.
“She said we,” rumbles at the back of my head at same the moment a crimson macoun apple appears directly in front of my nose. Warm hips press into my back and I’m dimly aware of Vicki turning her face towards Misha’s for a chaste kiss. “Lifting belly is so necessary,” he says, and why wouldn’t their couplespeak be Gertrude Stein?
Vicki lifts my chin with her index finger and turns my face to hers. “Lifting belly is so kind,” she says, her dark eyes endless, fixed on me, daring me to play along. I’m blank as early snow; I couldn’t string words together if my life depended on it and is that her husband’s belt buckle pressing into my back?
“I can’t say it too often,” Misha purrs, tracing the apple over the curved neckline of my sweater, following along my breastbone with a warm fingertip. “Lifting belly. Extroardinary.”
The words tumble out, at last. “I…I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above. Those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not…”
“Love?” Vicki asks. She beams at me. Misha is laughing, a soft snorting sound, his chin heavy on my shoulder, the apple tucked beneath my right breast, which is pressed against Vicki’s slender side. “We are so good together,” she tells me.
Yes.
Yes we are.
Victoria Vantoch is an author, a Guggenheim and NASA scholar specializing in queer theory, and I want her. She renewed her wedding vows at Albertson's. In drag. ♥♥♥♥ And Women of Power did exist, and it was wonderful.
Poetry lines from Gertude Stein, Lifting Belly, W.B. Yeats, An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.