1. Introduction: Slash
[1.1] If the Fifty Shades of Grey franchise (2011–) has taught the academic community anything, it's that transformative works are eminently socially relevant. Originally erotic fan fiction of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight world, Fifty Shades amassed a rabid online following before it became the best-selling fictional phenomenon that spawned the film franchise we all know today. However, E. L. James's success was not a fluke; in fact, the fandom world has had significant impacts on the broader publishing industry in the last decade with the rise of digital publishing and e-books. In recent years, it has become increasingly common to find previous or current fan fiction authors traditionally or self-publishing original content. While not as widely known as James, authors like Laura Baumbach, Jordan S. Brock, and C. S. Pacat all began their writing careers as fan fiction authors who, using the skills they cultivated in fandom, later found success in marketing original content. The key difference between authors like these and E. L. James is that these authors' works centralize homosexual slash relationships rather than heterosexual ones (note 1). In fact, E. L. James is something of a statistical outlier.
[1.2] Today, the majority of fandom writers entering the publishing industry do so through digitally published books, and the genre that the majority of fandom writers transition into is the LGBT e-book market, the fastest growing digital genre globally. Between 2015 and 2016 alone, e-book sales of LGBT fiction grew by 225 percent (Nielsen 2016). The majority of these works are written by women, and routinely many of the highest-rated and best-selling titles within this genre are authored by women who previously wrote or currently write fan fiction. These women produce original content that often mirrors the tropes and engagement techniques emblematic of slash fandom spaces. Despite this, Fifty Shades enjoys prominent scholarly attention while the multitude of slash authors finding success receive little to no attention. Perhaps this is because of the content of slash work itself. However, if Fifty Shades unequivocally established the potential for fan fiction to be worthy of scholarly attention, there is no reason that slash works should not enjoy the same treatment as serious documents of literary and cultural importance.
[1.3] It is here that I must make an important distinction. Today, fandom is an amorphous term and fan writers a massive worldwide creative force spread across dozens of platforms. For the sake of this essay, when I speak of fandom and fan works, I speak very specifically to the group of adult content creators who utilize the platform Archive of our Own, or AO3, to disseminate transformative content. I focus on AO3 because it is one of the largest archives in the world, its interface allows for in-depth statistical analysis, and, perhaps most important to my argument, it currently hosts more adult content (rated mature or explicit) than any other fan fiction platform (note 2). It is necessary to make this distinction because we cannot definitively state that the majority of fandom shows preferential treatment to homosexual pairings, nor would it be accurate to say that a majority of fandom enjoys creating and reading adult-rated content. However, both of these things are true of AO3 and its users. Half of the works hosted by AO3 feature a male/male couple, while, comparatively, male/female couples are featured in less than 25 percent of works (note 3). Indeed, all ten of the highest-production ships, or relationships, on AO3 feature male couples. Additionally, of the over 4.5 million works currently hosted by the archive, a third feature mature or explicit ratings and, as I've already stated, the predominance of explicit sexual content involves encounters between men.
[1.4] This perhaps raises the question: Who is writing all this gay sex? The answer is, while admittedly nuanced, predominantly women. In a census of AO3 users that took place at the end of 2013 (http://centrumlumina.tumblr.com/post/63208278796/ao3-census-masterpost), out of over ten thousand respondents, 80 percent reported their gender as female. The second-highest percentage, 6 percent, identified as genderqueer, and the third-highest, 4 percent, identified as male. Women being the driving force behind transformative works isn't a phenomenon isolated to AO3 or the digital world, however. Henry Jenkins addressed the gender discrepancy broadly in transformative fandom spaces as early as 1992 in his seminal work Textual Poachers. He hypothesized that the reason for such a massive schism between male and female producers is that transformative works represent a medium in which female audience members try to repackage mass-produced media that caters mostly to males in a format that brings them—rather than men—pleasure.
[1.5] If, as Jenkins and many of his scholarly successors assert, women are writing fan fiction, in this case, slash, for their own pleasure—catering to their own preferences as both creators and consumers—this prompts another key question: Why do so many women get pleasure out of reading and writing gay fan fiction? This is a question that has been asked before. Constance Penley described slash in 1992 as a "unique hybrid genre of romance, pornography and utopian science fiction" that female fans utilize for social and sexual experimentation (479). In a panel at the Escapade slash convention in 1998, she called it "a continuation of women's writing, combining women's romance and the male quest romance" into a new genre form. Joanna Russ similarly lauded slash as the only form of female writing where women could produce fantasies without censorship, arguing additionally that "the writers and readers of these fantasies can do what most of us can't do in reality (certainly not heterosexual reality), that is, they can act sexually at their own pace and under conditions they themselves have chosen" (Russ 1985, 90). Later, Russ described the production of slash as a form of inventive fantasy, writing where women create narratives free of the burden of expectations (Russ 2011). Sara Gwenllian Jones also praises the romantic freedom of slash, focusing on slash not as a new or unique form of writing but rather one that emulates romance novels with the purpose of challenging normative gender constraints. She argues that slash allows readers and writers to explore their own questions and desires in a safe space while anchored to well-known, loved characters (Jones 2002). Indeed, fandom scholars generally agree that slash is a beneficial form of writing for women because of the freedoms it allows.
[1.6] While scholars may generally agree about its benefits, they do not, historically, agree when attempting to categorize slash as a genre. As illustrated above, some believe that slash is a unique form of writing, while others treat it as a subset of romance writing. However, recent publications by Kristina Busse (2017), Lucy Neville (2018), and Elizabeth Woledge (2006) challenge these more black-and-white approaches. These authors focus not only on the content of slash but the importance of surrounding fan culture in conversation with and in response to the content of slash works. In "Intimatopia: Genre Intersections Between Slash and Mainstream," Woledge situates slash within a wider literary context where she discusses the subversive potential of slash, focusing not on the erotics of romance but rather the intimacy present in slash works. Neville observes that involvement in reading and writing slash often affects women's views on gender and sexuality, political engagement, and LGBTQ rights. She notes slash fandom not only as a safe space for women to explore their sexualities and gender identities but also discusses how access to this space affects women's real-world lives. Similarly, Busse argues in Framing Fan Fiction that looking at any form of media fandom, including slash, necessitates a combination of both cultural and literary studies because fan fiction is both literary work and cultural document. Busse adeptly illustrates the complexity of communally created social and literary works, highlighting the work fandom does intertextually as well as paratextually. Slash, then, assists in exploring issues of gender, sexuality, performativity, and self-identity. It emerges not as a regurgitation of romantic genre forms or as an entirely original medium but rather as a medium that thrives on the repetition of community-appreciated tropes and ideals that encourages both personal and social introspection.
[1.7] Building upon these insights, I argue that the now-recognized complexity of slash gestures to the scholarly potential for a multitude of literary and cultural examinations that address the intersection of slash's content and communities. Specifically, if we consider slash as both literary and cultural document, then theory that focuses on the intersection between culture and literature—particularly culture and literature historically recognized as both subversive and amalgamative—is a useful method for considering the work slash performs.
2. Slash and borderlands
[2.1] Demarcating the participants of slash fandom as a distinct social group that, despite differences, amalgamates and perpetuates content relatable to their fringe societies according to dominant narrative structures, is a helpful basis for identifying and defining the cultural aspect of fandom. One might further conceptualize the cultural experience of adult slash spaces like AO3 through the lens of borderlands theory, and one might use this theory to make sense of fan-produced content that both perpetuates and opposes hegemonic narratives. By invoking the term "borderlands," I address Gloria Anzaldúa's (1987) formative text Borderlands/La Frontera. Here, Anzaldúa attends to the overlapping spaces in which groups interact—where residents display a hybridity of opposing culture. While Anzaldúa focuses on this dynamic in terms of Mexico and the United States, she states that "the psychological borderlands, the sexual borderlands and the spiritual borderlands are not particular to the Southwest" but are present "whenever two or more cultures edge each other" (I). Residents of borderlands exist in a "place of contradictions," where they must keep intact their "shifting and multiple identities" (I). Therefore, Anzaldúa's theory addresses intercultural differences in any margin scenario, whether it be related to class, race, sex, gender, or otherwise. In these margin scenarios, the concept of borderlands more broadly critiques binary thinking, colonialism, and colonialism's use of culture and myth to create stereotypes and social subjugation.
[2.2] The versatility of borderlands as a literary tool is something that Anzaldúa scholar AnaLouise Keating examines in both Women Reading Women Writing (1996) and The Gloria Anzaldúa Reader (2009). In Women Reading Women Writing, Keating uses borderlands to discuss women's use of creative and critical writing as a method of self- and cultural analysis and critique, allowing the deconstruction and reconstruction of belief and perception through "alternative myth." In doing so, she attends to the sometimes related, sometimes distinct, worlds of feminist women, queer women, and women of color, considering how these women create content that is interactive with each other and with the power structures that limit them. Here, borderlands emerges as a tool for understanding the distinctions and intersections of identity and how women's writing itself can blur some of these boundaries and destabilize previous classification structures. Keating more explicitly explains in The Gloria Anzaldúa Reader her belief that Anzaldúa's borderlands is applicable for all manner of binaries. She says of her experience teaching that she is often "struck by the profound way [Anzaldúa's] words resonate with so many different kinds of people"—even those who do not identify as Chicana, Latina, or queer (3). She notes that Anzaldúa herself refused to "be contained within any single group or belief system" and "maintained multiple allegiances," locating herself in multiple worlds (2). Keating also notes that Anzaldúa freely suggested the applicability of her borderlands theory in all manner of threshold existence scenarios and spoke to the broad usefulness of her methods for overcoming alienation and oppression. I suggest that for the purpose of this essay we consider borderlands in this way, in which notions of hybridity might be used as a theoretical gateway for forms of cultural interaction independent from the specificity of place or race.
[2.3] Within the academic world, scholars have already begun investigating both borderlands as a metaphor for broader critique and fandom as culture but have yet to formally extend this paradigm as a means of critical interpretation for slash fan fiction. Doing so, I suggest, offers insight into cultural value and motivations of female fan creators, not just within the microcosm of slash or even fandom but perhaps pertaining to wider social and cultural transformations as well.
[2.4] To consider borderlands in this way, we must return to the initial question of why women write slash for personal enjoyment. Past scholars, including already mentioned authors like Penley, Jenkins, Russ, Busse, and Woledge, note that women largely fall into one or more of four categories when explaining their enjoyment of slash. The first is queer women who identify in some way with the visual or textual imagery of male pleasure. Here, women reconsider, and sometimes actively reconfigure, what masculinity and femininity mean to them outside the constraints of typical sexual gender composition. The second reason, in contrast, is that many women prefer not to see any characters with whom they identify or have to concern themselves with ethically. Slash offers a solution for those who disapprove of the objectification of women often found in pornography, because there are no women present, subjugated or otherwise. A third party of viewers simply enjoy reading depictions of male pleasure. Finally, many women cite the relationship dynamics present between male characters in mass-produced media as a driving force for their interest in slash. This final reason is particularly noteworthy because it is isolated (by its very construction) from the reasoning women give for enjoying other forms of m/m erotica, like gay porn. Mass-produced media's representations of interpersonal relationships between male characters are often very compelling but unexplored on-screen or in text in their cannons. Television shows give viewers three-dimensional male characters who evolve over seasons, who develop close bonds and irrefutable chemistry with other, similarly well-developed, male characters, while often the women in these shows, movies, and books are background characters or those who appear briefly as shallow unappealing plot devices and love interests. Often these women are introduced, seduced, and killed or otherwise disposed of within the space of a few episodes. As a result, fans find writing the more deeply developed male characters' relationships more rewarding.
[2.5] There is also a sociocultural aspect of slash production that is unique to the fan fiction genre—purely because of the way fan readers and writers interact in online forums. Transformative fandom generally appears to support writers who tackle subjects and storylines that mainstream editing and publishing avenues often do not welcome. Fandom benefits writers twofold—in helping them hone their craft but also in bridging the gap between fandom writing and original content. This is particularly clear in the recent insurgence of slash writers translating their fandom followings into e-book sales for original m/m content, as already discussed—when fans of slash follow their favorite authors from AO3 to the Kindle marketplace to purchase their most recent original creations. Fandom is a community—one that is both rebellious and incorporative in its transformative nature. By taking hegemonic patriarchal narratives about heterosexual characters and transforming them into gay narratives, slash becomes pleasurable for female audiences and consumers in both its subversive nature and its content. Writers utilize fan works as a challenge of perception that reflects the ideology behind Anzaldúa's (1987) conception of a "mestiza consciousness" in Borderlands. Anzaldúa describes the mestiza consciousness as a "crossbreeding" like corn—where preservation and evolution coincide. It is a consciousness of duality where "contradiction" is not only encouraged but necessary. Anzaldúa states,
[2.6] By creating a new mythos—that is, a change in the way we perceive reality, the way we see ourselves, and the ways we behave—la mestiza creates a new consciousness. The work of mestiza consciousness is to break down the subject/object duality that keeps [a woman] prisoner and to show in the flesh and through the images in her work how duality is transcended. The answer to the problem…lies in healing the split… A massive uprooting of dualistic thinking in the individual and collective consciousness. (65)
[2.7] For this reason, it is useful to consider borderlands theory as a tool for conceptualizing fandom involvement in slash, where many participants strive for both inclusivity and subversion within their performance of pleasure. Moreover, the application of borderlands to slash specifically helps us understand female pleasure in new ways. Here, slash works emerge as the epitome of narrative metalepsis, revealing themselves to be the literal imposition of extradiegetic female desires on fictional worlds and characters. These works are ontologically different from other forms of media production in that fandom creators and contributors understand that they are in a conversation with both each other and their audiences, as well as source material. This reflects the perspective from the "cracks" that Anzaldúa describes, where creators use their unique perspectives, both incorporative of mainstream narratives and characters and reflective of personal or community lived experiences, to produce holistic, transformative content (1987, 236).
3. A case study
[3.1] To further illustrate the usefulness of borderlands, I suggest a short case study of a highly lauded slash work entitled Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) (2015) by author Spitandvinegar on AO3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094785). It is a canon-compliant story in the Marvel universe that takes place following the canonical events of Captain America: The First Avenger (2011) and Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), films that document the lives of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers—best friends who grow up in the Depression era, go to war, and become superhuman soldiers. In the first film, set during World War II, Bucky falls several hundred feet from a moving train, and everyone in his unit assumes he has died. Shortly afterward, Steve crashes a plane with a nuclear weapon in it into the Arctic Ocean to save humanity. Decades later, scientists locate the frozen plane, and when they remove Steve's body, they find he has been kept alive, in stasis. They revive him, and he tries to adapt to the twenty-first century. In the second film, Steve discovers that Bucky is also still alive, turned into a brainwashed assassin by Hydra, a remnant of the Soviet government. In the penultimate scene, Bucky recognizes Steve and saves his life. Ain't No Grave picks up where the films leave off, documenting Steve and Bucky's recovery as they grapple with the mental and physical ramifications of their Depression-era youth, religious upbringings, repressed sexuality, WWII experiences, and Bucky's torture at the hands of Hydra, where he was both brainwashed and received a traumatic brain injury (TBI).
[3.2] Spitandvinegar published Ain't No Grave chapter by chapter between 2015 and 2016. It comprises ten chapters, 107,076 words, and is well known within the fan fiction community, even by those who do not typically consume Marvel works.
[3.3] With 204,903 hits, 4,918 bookmarks, 9,522 kudos, and 2,574 comments (as of July 19, 2019), the explicit-rated work has drawn cross-fandom readership from all over the globe. Aside from witty dialogue and plain good writing, according to the comments posted on each chapter, readers find the story compelling because it represents two people dealing with trauma in every aspect of their life—including sex. Spitandvinegar documents the minutia of recovery, Steve and Bucky's progress, and setbacks. She follows her characters' struggles with love and lust, self-doubt, and repression. This is part of what makes the work so compelling for readership and subversive in construction. In taking two of the most hypermasculine figures in popular culture and writing not only about the deep and abiding love they have for each other but also their struggles to be intimate because of their environments and histories, Spitandvinegar addresses two topics that remain transgressive in widely produced narratives: homosexual intimacy between equally masculine partners and realistic portrayals of the struggle that queer individuals often have with issues of gender, religion, and trauma. In being a woman producing this narrative not as original content but as a transformative work of a genre that usually opposes such narratives, she introduces a third transgression—the one we've discussed at length—by the very means of the story's construction. Here, Spitandvinegar takes up the work of a threshold person, someone who, according to Anzaldúa, straddles the divide between a binary and creates within this divide a catalyst for representation or change (1987).
[3.4] In Ain't No Grave, Spitandvinegar addresses trauma recovery on an entirely level playing field. Neither Steve nor Bucky hold primary power in their relationship. They both suffer from many of the common effects of PTSD: panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares, disassociation, and substance abuse, while Bucky deals with ongoing complications from a TBI: memory problems, time loss, ticking, stuttering, and migraines. Spitandvinegar's handling of both the in-text depictions of trauma recovery and her conversations with readers about their reactions to and appreciation of the characters' struggles reflects Anzaldúa's assertions about the ability of borderlands storytellers to reconstruct trauma in new forms in order to help others and themselves grapple with trauma they personally have experienced. Anzaldúa asserts that these creators can locate themselves in a world between where they can be a healing voice to their listeners, or, in this case, readers (1987). Not only does Spitandvinegar provide an accurate and well-researched portrayal of PTSD and TBI recovery, where neither character is demonized nor turned into a caretaking martyr, she also incorporates sexual and gender exploration into the recovery narrative—something many readers praised in their comments.
[3.5] This reoccurring theme of gender and sexuality begins in the third chapter when Sam Wilson (Falcon), who is also a counselor at the VA, works with Bucky to help him stop disassociating and reclaim his body as his own. Taking Sam's advice, Bucky looks at his naked body in the mirror:
[3.6] He goes to Steve's apartment and he runs a bath and he takes off his clothes and he looks at the body.
The body—
The body is negative.
Wilsonsamuelthomas would say that the feelings about the body are negative.
Buck thinks that's some doubletalking bullshit. (chapter 3)
[3.7] Bucky realizes that he can't recall the last time he used his body as something other than a weapon and, in an attempt to begin reclamation of his body, he tries to masturbate. His first attempt results in a panic attack. Thinking about Steve centers him, and he tries again, successfully this time. Spitandvinegar writes, "Steve is positive. Think about Steve. His hands. Positive. His voice. Positive. His eyes. Very positive. His mouth. Highly positive. The mission is go" (chapter 3). Afterward, Bucky has something of an existential crisis—realizing that there is some piece of his humanity still left and that Hydra hasn't taken everything away from him.
[3.8] He just lies there and laughs, because Christ, he's a disaster, he's a walking trash fire, he's an eight-car pileup, he's a threshing machine wrapped in a dead man's skin, and he feels better than he has since they ripped his soul out of his piece of garbage horrorshow of a body seventy fucking shitstained years ago. (chapter 3)
[3.9] The majority of readers found the frankness with which Spitandvinegar discusses Bucky's issues with his body refreshing. She addresses his disassociation not only regarding his physical disabilities but also his sexuality and performance of gender often and in great detail. She also addresses the fact that many real-life trauma survivors struggle with sexual issues but are often too ashamed to discuss them. She emphasizes in the story that there is no shame in having these kinds of problems and explorations nor in talking about such struggles with close friends or partners. In the subsequent chapters, sex is an ongoing issue for Bucky, which he talks candidly about with both Sam and Steve, who handle the conversations with empathy and humor.
[3.10] "So when you say you can't," Steve says, "You mean, uh—"
"I mean, it ain't b-b-broken," Bucky says. "I can still get off sometimes. It's just shy, you know? Like a classy dame with sensitive nerves."
"Oh, well, that makes sense then," Steve says. "That is what I always think of when I think about your johnson. A classy dame. With sensitive nerves."
"Aw, you've been th-th-thinking about my dick, sweetheart? I'm flattered."
"Oh, yeah," Steve says. "It's one of the only four things I ever think about. You know: liberty, justice, your dick and the asshole it's attached t—"
Bucky tackles him to the floor. (chapter 7)
[3.11] Similarly, Spitandvinegar documents Steve's struggles with his sexuality and, more specifically, religion as well. While Steve hasn't undergone the trauma of brainwashing that Bucky has, his Catholic upbringing in the early 1900s as a frail, disabled kid has left him with obstacles to overcome before he can become intimate with Bucky. Both men have tried most of their lives to suppress admitting their interest in each other, and Steve, in particular, struggles with confronting his sexuality. After several chapters, Steve finally says out loud to Sam that he's bisexual. They have a conversation that many commenters identify with, saying they've had similar conversations or made similar revelations in their own lives and with their own partners, necessitating a reconsideration of their religious dogma. After being intimate one night, Steve returns to the bed with his Bible in hand and asks if he can read a passage to Bucky:
[3.12] Steve clears his throat, and starts to read, that big deep voice of his soft and gentle on the words.
"By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth? It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go." (chapter 8)
[3.13] This is one of the chapters with the most reader comments—with responders of all ages and genders empathizing with the struggle Steve and Bucky undertake in reconciling both religion and their sexuality and citing Spitandvinegar's story as a therapeutic way to work through their own experiences. This reflects the shamanistic aspect of borderlands creators that Anzaldúa (1987) describes, where storytellers share transformative narratives that transcend class, race, and sexuality. "The ability of story (prose and poetry)," Anzaldúa says, is the ability "to transform the storyteller and the listener into something or someone else" (66). Here, Spitandvinegar and slash writers like her walk the path between the self, the community, and the broader world, creating a bridge between these borders. Additionally, readers praised Spitandvinegar for the way in which Steve established that he liked both men and women. For many bisexual readers, this was its own form of relief—where an authority figure (Captain America himself) clearly states that he is bisexual and that being in a homosexual relationship doesn't negate that. Similar to her challenging of preconceived notions about trauma, Spitandvinegar challenges preconceived notions about bisexuality with a character that vocally opposes common stereotypes across gender and goes on to then challenge the very concept of gender within a monogamous relationship as well.
[3.14] Because of their early 1900s upbringings, Bucky and Steve are an apt couple to complicate notions of gender and gendered behavior within the domestic sphere. Bucky, the Winter Soldier, a cybernetically enhanced Soviet super spy and lethal assassin, likes the color pink, strawberry milkshakes, fluffy blankets, and having his hair brushed.
[3.15] [He buys] a new powder-pink hoodie with an extra-soft lining. He wears it almost all the time, padding silently around the apartment with his hair hanging in his face. He keeps giving Steve these weird sidelong glances when he wears it, like he's daring him to say something about it. Finally, one day he comes up to Steve while he's reading on the couch.
"Steve."
"Mm."
"Do you like. My sweater?"
"Your hoodie?" Steve blinks. "Yeah, I like it a lot."
…Then he says, "Do I look. Dangerous?"
"No," says Steve. He thinks he's catching on. "You look really cute."
"Cute," Buck says happily. (chapter 9)
[3.16] Steve Rogers, Captain America, the indestructible muscle-bound super soldier, leader of the Avengers, and arguably the most masculine figure in the Marvel universe, enjoys being taken care of and recalls fondly when he was small and couldn't work because of his health problems. During that time, he shared an apartment with Bucky and took over the womanly duties of cooking and cleaning and making Bucky's lunches. He liked doing those things for Bucky and finally admits that he misses those days, sharing that he used to fantasize, in the 1940s, that he'd been born a woman and could marry Bucky.
[3.17] Buck blinks, then grins. "You mean, like, it's right after the war, and I've just gotten off work at the garage, and I get home to the dump in Red Hook and you're fixing me dinner—"
"Oh, Lord," Steve says. He's sounding a little strangled.
"I like all of my pink stuff because I like feeling all s-s-soft and cute and harmless and shit," Buck says, considering. "What's it all about for you, punk? It's embarrassing? You want to feel embarrassed?"
"I'm your wife," Steve says softly. "And all I gotta do is stay at home and cook and clean, and I know you're gonna come home every night and take care of me." (chapter 10)
[3.18] Bucky understands how important it is that Steve is willing to admit this to him and encourages Steve to tell him the rest of his fantasy in detail when he is embarrassed and uncertain of his fantasy's reception. Steve tells him that he'd be a "lucky girl" who wouldn't have to worry about Bucky his "good husband" straying (chapter 10). Even though Bucky is the one facilitating Steve in the following intimate scene, Spitandvinegar makes sure that Steve is not the only one showing vulnerability, nor is he the only one challenging preconceived notions of masculinity. When Steve asks if Bucky would like to penetrate him, Bucky says he's not comfortable with that yet and suggests, instead, that he be the receptive partner. Despite Steve intentionally playing a feminine role, he is the stereotypically dominant partner, who even displays masculine-coded aggression at times, picking Bucky up and moving to position him as he wants. Even within this intentionally gendered fantasy, there is no distinct power imbalance in their lovemaking, with both Steve and Bucky stopping and resuming amorous activities as necessary to facilitate enjoyment. Importantly, throughout this and other scenes, Bucky's trauma-related issues don't go away once they become intimate, but rather are incorporated into the scene. Spitandvinegar writes:
[3.19] "The classy dame kinda decides to make an exit for a little while, for no fucking good reason that Buck can figure out, but Steve just keeps talking to him and kissing his shoulders and touching him like it doesn't matter at all, and eventually she gets back in line… So maybe Buck cries a little, who the fuck cares, so what, Stevie doesn't mind. (chapter 10).
[3.20] Steve, sharing a fantasy in which he plays a female domestic role, Bucky referring to Steve and his own dick with female pronouns, and the unapologetic emotion of the scene, all gesture to the broader queer work that Spitandvinegar's writing, and the writing of many female slash contributors, seeks to accomplish. This work reflects the traversing of the gender binary that Anzaldúa discusses, saying, "There is something compelling about being both male and female, about having an entry into both worlds…We are suffering from an absolute despot duality that says we are able to be only one or the other. It claims that human nature is limited and cannot evolve into something better. But I, like other queer people, am two in one body, both male and female. I am the embodiment of the hieros gamos: the coming together of opposite qualities within" (1987, 41).
[3.21] The slash community has created a space where queer and straight women alike can work through everything from personal trauma to religion to questioning gender conformity to sexual curiosity and arousal, in a format abstracted from typical literary and cultural constraints. While it would be patently untrue to say that all slash is progressive and that all female slash writers are a positive force in fandom, the way in which AO3 is structured—allowing diverse, mature, content, as well as community interaction—provides a platform for progressive stories and authors like Spitandvinegar to gain a following. The story Spitandvinegar writes, both deeply introspective and interpersonal, is a kind of narrative largely unseen in most popular media. In this particular case, this dearth is a consequence of genre and market expectations. Added to the high-adrenaline action sequences that define comic forms, the entertainment industry's commitment to producing comic movies that echo the intensity of the genre with heavy doses of special effects has further concretized traditional superhero narratives away from cultural investments such as allowing the psychologically complex, action-light process of recovery or gender exploration to develop in print or onscreen. That being said, the lack of industry interest in imagining these stories has not been lost on the consumers who maintain the industry. While these themes may not typically appear within movie or comic formats, they are acutely present in Marvel fan works, particularly slash works. Unlike mass-produced publications, which abide by hegemonic narratives and necessitate a strict dichotomy between creator and consumer, Spitandvinegar's work here is reflective of any borderlands production in that it is deconstructive, reformative, and transformative, a collaborative work that both incorporates, yet remains resistant to, imposed, nonprogressive narratives.
4. Conclusion
[4.1] While the plot-centered demands of standard fare narratives within film and print may not often allow for these psychologically complex, sexually exploratory, action-light processes, these themes are uniquely suited to a fan fiction format. Because there is an assumed preconception of the characters and their histories inherent to the genre, slash fiction does not have to concern itself with the standard protocols of backstories, action-intensive plot, and so on (unless it wants to), and can instead centralize its attention on the interpersonal, physiological, political, and psychosexual lives of known characters. This freedom results in the queer fandom phenomenon we see today in slash. By invoking the term "queer," I do not merely refer to the fact that slash focuses on gay relationships. Rather, I point to the work that slash is doing—the sort of transformative, incorporative, yet subversive, work that Anzaldúa's borderland ideology supports. For this reason, digital archives like AO3 are important creative spaces and a platform on which authors can modify characters and storylines popularized by comics, books, and film. Importantly, slash is not a genre that caters only to women. While that has been the focus of my essay, and women have certainly capitalized on the allowances that slash and fandom communities surrounding slash works facilitate, this is an inherently queer genre that welcomes all writers or readers who seek a pleasurable, therapeutic method of working through any number of binary-related issues, preconceived notions, and so on, whether these concerns are related to conceptions of gender, sexuality, religion, trauma, or more—something Ain't No Grave (Can Keep My Body Down) illustrates particularly well.
[4.2] In light of this knowledge, I argue that by allowing slash works broader exploration and analysis—like that afforded to canonical texts and media—the intersection of consumers, creators, and underserved fans may be better understood. While this essay is by no means comprehensive, I hope to illustrate the possibilities within this avenue of fandom studies and the potential this study may have of adding nuance to existing borderlands scholarship. Should slash be given wider attention as a cultural and literary form and theories like borderlands utilized to examine it, I believe the opportunity for critical analysis is far-reaching.