#guess my underwear nasty brain developed

[zappedbyzabka]

DP as in dick and pit the way the cobras/Kreese would pound Johnny till he cried and shove his face in their sweaty arm pits

[reclusiverisottonero]

things my brain has been quietly obsessing about—

consider these very sloppy nasty hinged 1AM risotto head canons i guess lmao

[cw menstruation, blood kink, scent kink, slightly sleazy risotto stealing your clothes (among other things) and being nasty with them]

risotto with a scent kink/fetish though??? HELLO?!

the crook of your neck is not enough for him, so he shoves his face into your armpit while jerking off or fucking you.

or mashing his face between your legs and humping the sheets, just soaking up your scent while going down on you. his cock is gonna make a crater in the mattress for how hard he’s going at it.

he likes your natural scent the most, without perfumes/deodorants, but he’s not about to say anything bc he knows much you like using them. he eventually develops a pavlovian response to the sound of you spraying it on and gets too embarrassed to look at you sometimes bc it makes him so hard.

scent memory is a very powerful thing, and just thinking about how good you smell to him has him rock hard in .01 seconds. has to find you and immediately fuck your brains out or look for a place to go relieve himself.

risotto secretly stealing your used clothes, and not just your underwear though those are his faves to wrap around his cock while rubbing one out to you.

he takes one or two articles of clothing with him when he has to be out on a hit for a while. both as a source of comfort and good jerk off material because he always misses you when you’re apart.

turns into a feral dog when you’re on your period. he can sense the blood bc of Metallica and he’s just so attuned to your scent that it’s easy for him to hyper focus on it when your hormones are working stronger than usual to make you smell so fucking good to him.

he’ll respect if you don’t want to have sex during this time but by god is he gonna struggle, walking around with a nonstop boner. and he’ll wanna have his head in your lap or cuddle up to you. offers to massage your lower back or stomach, to make you comfortable but also he’s trying to find any excuse to be close to you. a win-win in his opinion.

sometimes he takes your used tampons or pads. he’d die of shame if you ever found out but he loves loves loves the smell. when he jacks off to them he cums so hard it makes him feel drunk every time. so flushed he’s dizzy with it. he can hardly catch his breath before getting hard again when he sees how much he’s soaked them with his cum.

sure we could go with him being shameless about stealing your stuff but i like my risotto with a big helping of ‘i know this is wrong but i can’t/don’t want to control myself and feel bad about it’ on the side.

okay i’m done i cannot believe i wrote this out bYEEEE

[decayandfanfics]

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head,  every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his  silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a  fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He  thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the  very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset.  He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment  many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut, dirty talking.

A/N:  This chapter is shameless smut, you are warned. Minors do not interact. go and read a book or something.

Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.As always, let me know what you think!

________________________________________________

Chapter 14 / Chapter 15

Lovers ever run before the clock.

Overhaul really is just an uptight pretentious asshole, but Tomura lets his insulting remarks slide, trying his utter best not to snap.

He was supposed to be in a good mood today, but by the time Chronostasis puts the gun against his white locks, he swears that he will do anything in his power to completely ruin Shie Hassakai for this mess, already struggling to keep his temper at bay.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all.”

He’s never one to get distracted but it is difficult to stay focus when he cannot erase the feeling of her thighs caging his hips, her words rumbling inside his brain like a prayer for him to come back and take what’s already his.

It enrages him far more than he would like to admit, but he can’t go back if he gets killed, can’t he?

Luckily for them, Tomura kinda lacks that self-preservation impulse at the face of danger, so he stays there completely stoic and delightfully petty between Chisaki and the gun. The thought of her crying because he got his pretty brains scattered all over the Shie Hassakai immaculate floor makes him realize that he has yet another reason to hate Overhaul.

Really, what’s the matter with these people? they just keep adding points to their list, but sure, he will work with what he has (as always) by sending Toga and Twice into their ranks to gain some reliability after Chisaki told him about this ridiculous plan of curing society of quirks like it’s an illness.

And he thought que was an extremist.

It’s a dumb concept, really. People decide to be assholes, to be heroes, villains and such. There is a choice in excluding those like him from society meanwhile hero violence is idolized. But quirks? People don’t get to choose. Shit just happens. You can develop a cute little nice quirk that allows you to make bubbles or something ridiculous like, dunno, destroying everything you touch; but people can help it, it’s just the way it is. Nobody asks for it. Not even Overhaul, not even him.

And, even when Tomura can understand what Overhaul is saying about society being unfair based on quirks, his plan still sounds pretty nonsensical to him, who wants to destroy everything with his own hands, after all is that why he was born with such deadly weapon at the reach of his fingers. It would be nothing short but hypocritical and, despite the irony, he likes to think of himself as an honest person. His goal clashes directly with Overhaul’s, so no, he will keep the league interests to himself and for now will trust Toga and Twice to do what they do best without rising any suspicion about what he’s up to. Chisaki is more stupid tan he looks if he thinks Tomura will make blind eye to the audacity of his challenge and his continuous lack of propriety.

Oh, poor Overhaul. He doesn’t know it yet, but he already lost.

In the meantime, he’ll keep himself busy on more important and exciting matters. Hating Overhaul is something he can use as a motivation for more than just inner monologue, because you see, Tomura has a revenge to plan and a truck to steal.

_____________

 Things are different next time he sees you. Something primal and strange born from a sick sense of belonging that fills your interactions after the night you slept together, soothing his temper and bitterness into something warmer and far more intense that pulls and twist and burns to be close to each other.

It's been four days since they left the apartment to prepare the backhand against Overhaul and Tomura is sure that by that hour tomorrow Overhaul will have failed, leaving him as the great winner of his sensei’s title. (Not that he ever needed to prove it, but if Overhaul wanted to pick a fight, he would not be the one to deny his wishes.)

Tonight, however, has nothing to do with all that, not when he’s finally back.

You’ve been waiting for his return by the window, searching for his frame in every shadow, a mug of chocolate warming your hands as the soup simmered over the stove. A warm meal made for him every night in case he decided to return, guessing he would be hungry and cold, wondering if it isn’t too much (but you care for him, so you do it anyway).

A supposition that turned out to be true, but Tomura had another solution in mind.

He’s a starving dog all hunger and demand, a wild vicious thing that looks at you feral and maddened, dripping with want and something far scarier that you don’t dare to name (but you do know, don’t you?).

You are no better than him, not when your fingers had traced patterns with his name across your body, spelling dreams and fantasies from your lips, remembering the way his fingers filled you and you wonder if he touched himself thinking about you too. The answer comes rather messy the moment his jagged mouth whimpers how much he missed you between whispers and moans that to you sound like poetry.

And he takes and takes and takes with deaf hands and sharp teeth, leaving bruises with the shape of his fingertips burned all over you as he bites and scratch and pull-out whimpers and pants from your mouth that echoes the frantic tune of his heart slamming against his ribs because he missed you so much it was painful.  

So, he had kissed you feverish, stomping you against the wall desperate and needing for your attention until you had pull him by the neck of his shirt to drag him into the bedroom, his brain completely forgetting about Overhaul’s existence the moment you push him to the edge of the mattress to sit in his lap, pulling the hem of his shirt for him to take it off, too focused in the heat prints your hands leave on his pale shoulders as something roars inside of his chest urging him to imprint his existence on your skin and possess the being that lives inside your bones.

Tomura paints a plethora of purple kisses over your neck and chest as a mark of his touch and your belonging. Something dark and twisted reverbing inside his ribs, inside his brain.

Mine; his mind repeats over and over again until he’s dizzied from the words, drunk in touch as your hands slither all over his sides, his chest and shoulders. His eyes marveling in the way skin holds together every angle of your flesh and the parts where your bones show from inside of your figure when he finally takes off your dress.

So soft, so beautiful and all his.

His kisses become raw and sharp and painful like the electric bond that ties you together by the ribs, all roughness and need, bruising lips and sinking teeth. Your moans and pants mixing now and then with some pained yelps and hisses of his name to call out on his harshness, but he chooses to make deaf ears to your pleas, too busy trying to gorge on your taste.

His teeth sink on your skin leaving marks like crescent moons that he kisses after you cry, pleasure and need pooling between your thighs, a tightness that burn inside your belly as you tangle your fingers in his hair, thinking briefly between the fog of your thoughts that it has grown, that it looks painfully beautiful on him like a crown of silver and moonlight.

Soon enough your legs lock around his bony hips, the choir of soft mewls and pants has become something far more animal; cries filling the room with each touch. White underwear remaining as the last barrier to your skin, leaving a wet stain over the fabric of his jeans.  

The room turns unbearable warm as your kisses become more slopy and open, letting him take your mouth just how he likes it as he registers the way the skin of your torso presses against his bare chest, your warmth spreading over, suffocating him.

Hooking a finger on your bra cup, Tomura pulls down and reveals the flesh hidden under the layers of lace, deciding already that this is his favorite image of you. Covered in love marks, wet and underwear ruined, your bra tucked under the curb of your breast. Something obscene and desperate about it, more crude than mere nakedness and it’s exactly how he likes it.

It looks lewd, it looks nasty. It looks like everything he wants to make of you, so he tightens his hold on your waist, making your back curve a little up to latch his mouth to your breast, sucking hard enough to draw a loud moan from your lips as you dig your nails on the muscle of his arms, delight shooting through your spine.

“Ow…fuck…” you pant with each pull of his mouth, and he chuckles darkly against your chest, amused and smug because he has you and he knows it, a sinister part of him (the vengeful scary one that wants to kill and maim and destroy) screaming that you belong to him from now on, that you’ll never leave, that he’ll never let you.

Mine, and mine alone he thinks and the thought sounds jarring and loud inside his head as he leaves bruises all over the skin that surround the buds of your chest, making you gasp over his lap.

“What? Wanna say something?” Tomura teases watching your expression, your eyes going wide the moment he slides your panties to the side and press his fingers inside you without warning.

“T-oh…Tomura…fuck…ow” you try to articulate but the words come out as blurred whispers.

“No bickering now?”

“Oh god…Tomura…please” you cry trembling, mouth watering with every touch of his palm over your nerve.

“Please what.”

You hide your face on the crook of his neck to bite him hard enough to make him bark an excited laugh, rejoicing in the fact that you are marking him too, before hooking his fingers inside you to make you moan loudly; hips moving automatically as one of your hands reach the hem of his pants and unbuttons his jeans to touch him back.

“I want you inside.”

He lets out a pretty hiss the moment your fist close around his length, caressing him tentatively until finding a pace, giving you a little victory over his rough teasing.

“I wanna tear you apart” he growls reaching deep inside of you, a wolf like grin slicing across his face baring his sharp teeth “you are a mess. All wet and begging for me to fuck you.”

“Tomura…”

“Fuck…you are so wet, all for me…my good girl, my good girl.” The words pour out of his mouth in feverish tone as his other hand clear the hair off your face before catching your lips on his again.

“Tomura, please…”

He snaps, turning you onto the mattress to climb over your body, throwing his jeans to the floor before leaning between your thighs as his hardness brushes over your clothed center. His patience has run thin though, so he yanks the panties by one side, closing all five fingers over the piece of fabric that flews to the floor before transforming into dust.

He lines up with your center, feeling the intimate touch before thrusting deep into you, ripping out a high moan that makes your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving scratching marks all over his pale skin in an attempt to steady yourself as your walls burn with the stretching.

No, he isn’t gentle this time, he just can’t bring himself to be soft when he feels like the awful infatuation he’s been harboring inside is about to tear his ribs open, pouring out for everyone to see the bloody mess you’ve made of his heart. So, he thrust hard like punishing you for it, snaping his hips fast and deep into you, trying to leave a bruise mark inside as well as one of his hands tangles between your hair, pulling and making you scream to the rhythm of your creaking bed.

He bottoms out the moment his arm hooks under your knee, as you tangle your other leg over his waist, giving him deepest access into you, his tip planting kisses against your cervix, rough friction and raw closeness sending you over the edge because he’s fucking you hard, making sure your screaming can be heard from the hall of the building.

It's brutal, yet you give him everything he wants and more because you like it like this, you like it because is him. The warmth of his body covering yours and you wonder if he can feel it too.

The terrific need of holding onto his body, his wicked smile, his bruised heart. The horror of your attachment to a person like him and what this represents, at the brim of ruining your life for love…

Love.

You are so in love with him.

“Look at me” he demands pulling your hair, a feral snarl across his sharp face darkening his features before kissing you hard, his tongue filling your mouth in lewd motion. “Fuck, you are so tight…I wanna split you in half.” His voice is a coarse and maddened sound against your lips, so close and intimate it’s scary because he’s sinking so deep it feels like he’s trying to rearrange your insides and his words do nothing but intensify the heat.

“Fuck…Tomura…it hurst…you’re so rough…so rough” You manage to blurt out, eyes boring into his.

“And you love it, don’t you?” he snarls tightening the grip on your hair. “You like how it feels…like I’m gonna split your pretty cunt in two. Huh? Say it, say it…”

“Fuck…yes…yes”

“Yes what.” He barks in a particularly harsh thrust that makes you scream like a wildling.

“I love it…fuck…like that…I love it…I love it.”

“You are mine…you hear me?” he prays over your mouth half ordering, half begging for you to go down with it and say that yes, that you’ll never leave him, that you’ll stay with him “All mine to fuck, mine, mine, mine, MINE!” he growls with every thrust as the bed slams hard against the wall until you are a babbling incoherent mess.

His brutal pace and words get you quiet soon, too much to even make a sound and hardly even allowing you to breathe, too concentrated in the feeling of his length and him smashing into your ending wall as the overwhelming touch of his hips and his abdomen on yours burns your skin.

The brush of his hair and ragged breathing fanning over your cheek is the only compass of time while the tightness in your belly threatens to snap the moment your teary eyes meet his, mouth on mouth without even kiss, but you smile to him, your warm hand caressing softly the skin of his jaw as he tears into you, feeling incapable of telling him what the voice of your mind has been playing over and over again.

I’m in love with you.

Like sensing your thoughts, his hands abandon your hair. Four trembling fingers cuddling your cheek, carefully and almost scared before closing his eyes, letting his forehead rest on yours as he whispers sweet words of praise only for you to keep, still forcing himself in and out of you. His mouth watering to the sight of your bouncing breast still trapped by your bra.

“ow…I’m gonna..Tomura…I’m gonna…”

The snap of his hips become erratic when finally you come undone on him, eyes rolling back and a cry that tears your throat open when your walls clench around his hardness making him moan as he keeps thrusting in and out, reaching his own end soon after; his hand closing tightly into a fist over the mattress as he grunts with his face hidden on the crook of your neck, filling you warm and slick until he goes soft inside of you.

Tomura pulls out and rests his head on your chest, his heart hammering against your belly, still trying to catch his breath; his fingers tracing mindless patterns over the shape of your waist, as your hands slide between the tangled locks of silver, lips laying little pecks over his crown.

Time slows down, minutes passing and quiet settles, he notices.

Quiet inside of him.

This is all he wanted from the moment he crossed the umbral of your door months ago. The insufferable itch silenced by the calming thump of your heart, fluttering softly behind the gate of your ribs and he wonders if maybe you’d have a room by your core where he could lay his bones to finally rest for a minute from all the rage and hate that burdens him.

Maybe you do have one, hidden and unspoken, a mirror of the one you occupy in the graveyard of his chest where he holds you beautiful and bright and…everything he doesn’t get to hate.

Yeah, he thinks you do. After all, he’s lying in your arms, isn’t it? You had caressed his face and marked his neck and back, all teeth and nails, to then crown him with a wreath of kisses, your body soft and still under his weight, while your hands brush carefully through his scalp.

He knows the feeling, he’s not stupid…but he doesn’t get to speak its name yet.

Is not that bad, after all. Being attached to you and the lullaby of your heartbeat could make him better, smarter, stronger. You could be another reason to fight and destroy. After all, in a society as rotten as this one, you’ll never be allowed to walk by his side if not by putting a bounty on your head too.

What the media would say about you? Would they catalog you as an S class villain? since your quirk is as deadly as it gets, you would be feared and hated. You can practically kill by just looking at someone and he’s not even sure if you really need to look to your target, after all.

And yet you are the kindest person he knows. If someone of the hero commission knew about this, you’d be hunted down despite your service as a doctor, despite your resolution to help whoever needs it, despite caring for those rotten and downthrown. And since you are critical of the system, you’d be reduced to just another animal to put down. Just like him.

Tomura swears he’ll decay every single person on the world before let that happen.

“Tomura…”

He rises his head to look at you, a question drawn across his face.

“Can you…move a little? My bra is killing me.”

“Ow…sorry about that.” He apologizes, curious eyes over the mark that the elastic has left over your skin as he sits by your side.

“Can you help me? I can’t reach the clip…”

“Sure…”  

You bend over to give him better access to your back, feeling his fingers brush over your skin carefully, before liberating you from the elastic straps incrusted on your flesh.

Tomura leans forward, placing soft kisses between your shoulder blades, letting his forehead rest over your spine and the touch is so sweet that it makes you wonder if maybe he does feel the same as you.

You get your answer when his hand moves forward to cup your breast, middle finger carefully up, as the other slides down between your thighs, making you sigh, feeling his hardness brushing your hip.

He nuzzles against your cheek, until you turn to kiss him deeply, warmth pooling between your legs again as his fingers play lazy between your slick entrance and the bundle of nerves. This time though, you take your chance and turn over, sitting on top before taking his wrist to lay kisses over the soft skin of his pulse.

Your quirk flares alive and before Tomura gets to catch on your intentions, his hands stand secured high against the headboard.

“What the…ow fuck!” He moans the moment your hand close over his length, pumping until he’s losing his breath, a ragged laugh scaping his jagged lips “fuck…you are an evil woman.”

“I should be proud if you say so.”

You accommodate over him, lowering until he fills you, pushing his previous release deeper into you.

Your pacing is torturingly slow and intense, soft moans and sweet whispers between languid kissed. Tomura watches hypnotized how your hips ride over the place you two connect, his crimson eyes half lidded as he lets you take him, before finally releasing your hold.

He touches you carefully this time, palming over the curve of your hipbone and your belly, index finger up as he wonders how deep is he, trying to feel himself from the outside, before pushing down to sink deeper into you, hitting the fragile spot where he makes you cry.

“I like you like this…” he speaks softly, looking you up from behind his eyelashes as you ride him slowly.

“How” your word is a whisper against his lips.

“Bare…” he rasps, his voice luring you into his embrace, spilling sweet nothing into his ear as he mumbles over and over again.

“My good girl…you are so good for me…”

This time you reach your peak softly. A sweet thing that fills you gently; walls fluttering around his oversensitive length while you keep rocking him until he stuffs you again, finally both falling back into the mattress side to side, already drifting into sleep, both tired and content.

A light touch catches your attention before falling unconscious. Tomura´s pinky hooks on yours as a silent plea, so you spill a peck over his shoulder before resting your temple on it, a sweet gesture that makes his heart tremble with fear and excitement for all the right reasons.

So, he does what he wants, sliding his arm under your neck and moving your head to rest on his chest. Over his heart he lays a fist for you to grip gently by the wrist before finally crowning you with soft kisses as the steady beat of his heart lulls you to dream.

Chapter 16 (soon)

[artificialqueens]

Nostalgia, Part 2 (Rujubee) - Dartmouth420

nostalgia is a series that follows the re-ignition of raven/jujubee’s friendship (with benefits) while jujubee competes on all stars five and raven is working on set. there will be one chapter for every episode of AS5 where jujubee appears. drag names used with male pronouns.

summary: The girl-group challenge is no joke and stressed-out Jujubee needs a break. But then he runs into a certain someone in the hallway… a certain someone who leaves a mark.

warnings: smut, semi-public sex, bodily fluids, hickies

-

When Jujubee watched the episode as it aired almost a year later, he noted that the hickie was very obvious. Oh well. He would simply chalk that down to another one of his questionable shenanigans with Raven, hope nobody noticed and move on. 

The first day of filming the second episode didn’t start out particularly well. It began with Cracker deciding that he had to tell Ongina how desperately he had wanted the other queen to be in the bottom, which was goddamn irritating. Jujubee gave Cracker some healthy side-eye for his bizarre behaviour.

The girl group challenge was difficult, writing and recording original lyrics, and then doing original choreography was time consuming and exhausting. And then Jujubee had to look good and stand out among nine other queens. 

After re-explaining the assignment to India who hadn’t seemed to understand it, Jujubee decided now was the time for a bathroom break, as much due to the actual need as the desire for a brief moment alone. One of an army of PA’s released him and he wandered down the hallway, making a turn to their designated area. 

The lip-sync format twist wasn’t sitting well with Jujubee. While seeing India compete against Yvie last week had made for an amazing show, the development was concerning. Jujubee had spent a significant portion of his prep time before the filming developing strategies for lip-syncing against any of the other girls in the room. He’d watched their performances over and over, learning their go-to moves and considering how to work around or block them. But now there were random lip-sync assassins showing at the last minute? What the fuck, Ru?

Just as Jujubee was turning the corner to the bathroom, he spotted a very familiar ass covered in a very familiar pair of tight jeans. Well, hello. The rest of Raven’s body was there as well, of course. He was talking to somebody, but Jujubee lingered in the hall as the conversation ended and Raven nodded in confirmation and then turned around.

Raven stopped dead when he noticed him, a smile growing on his face. 

Jujubee waved flirtatiously with just his fingers and said, “Hey, dumbass.”

Raven positively sashayed towards him, “Thought you were busy with filming.”

“Bathroom break.”

Raven glanced to the door next to Jujubee and then back, “How’s it going today?”

“I’m so fucking stressed out.”

Raven nodded understandingly and Jujubee glanced at his mouth and recalled their storage room tryst a few days ago. Jujubee was trying not to let the stress of the competition get to him, but it was building up today. And damn it, Raven was such a good stress release.

“Care to join me?” asked Jujubee, motioning towards the door with his head. He doubted he’d get a positive response, there was no way they’d manage to get away with it twice-

But Raven actually, physically, bit his bottom lip and inhaled sharply, and then he glanced over Jujubee’s shoulder down the hall. 

“If we’re quick-”

“We will be-”

“And no one sees-”

“Then fuck yes,” said Raven, eyes still on the hallway. “Just a sec, someone’s passing down there-” he paused, “Now.”

Jujubee pushed the door open and Raven followed him in. The small brightly lit room had a toilet, a urinal, a sink and a mirror, and an oh-so-lovely lock on the door. 

Jujubee had barely turned the lock when Raven was on him, pushing him up against the bathroom wall and kissing him aggressively. Damn. Jujubee returned the enthusiasm, enjoying it immensely since he’d missed out on the opportunity the other day. There was no makeup to ruin now. 

Raven’s hands were already wandering, sliding down Jujubee’s waist to grip his ass and grope the rapidly growing erection in the front of his pants.

Raven deftly unbuckled Jujubee’s belt and fly, palming him through his underwear, and Jujubee returned the favour, touching Raven with an oddly nostalgic familiarity. Rapid mutual hand jobs shouldn’t be a problem, it would a quick and dirty stress release and then they’d go back to work.

Raven was kissing his neck and Jujubee allowed him, enjoying the contrast of Raven’s soft lips on his neck to the quick, almost rough sensation of his hand moving on his cock. 

And then he felt a hint of teeth. 

“Don’t you dare leave a mark,” snapped Jujubee, gripping the back of Raven’s neck, “Seriously. I have enough makeup to do without covering up a hickie.”

Raven pouted and whined, “But I want to.”

“For fucks’s sake,” muttered Jujubee, rolling his eyes. He pushed Raven back and pulled his shirt up. Jujubee drew an invisible line across his chest and said, “My dress tonight will cover from there down, go at it you dumb slut.”

Raven did so with a grin, pushing Jujubee against the wall again and dipping his head to kiss and suck and bite at Jujubee’s chest, while simultaneously returning to job that was, well, at hand. Jujubee shut his eyes let Raven do his thing, reflecting once again on the other man’s blatant oral fixation. But it did feel good, as he flinched slightly at the sensation. Apparently Raven was fully intent on leaving visible marks.

Raven straightened up and Jujubee could reach him again, taking his hard cock in his hand once more and going for it. 

And again, there was something so filthy and satisfying and ridiculous to be doing this with Raven in a random bathroom while the other queens were stuck in the Werkroom going in stressful, anxious circles. Soon enough Jujubee was beginning the feel to the craved-for release. 

“I’m going to come,” said Jujubee, focusing to keep his voice steady. 

“Good,” breathed Raven into his ear. 

A few moments later Jujubee gasped and his vision went briefly white and everything was very, very good and Raven made a noise in the back of his throat and then there was cum on their hands and Jujubee’s stomach.

They stepped away from one another, going to the sink to wash off. Cleaning up afterwards was always unceremonious, considered Jujubee as he wiped the cum off his stomach with a wet paper towel. 

“Ah shit, there’s some on your jeans.”

“Oh,” said Raven, looking down, and wiping it off, “If it stains I’ll just say I spilled some lash glue, it’s fine.”

“Girl, that’s nasty.”

“Ah, shut up.”

Jujubee glanced down at the reddish marks Raven had left on his chest that were already beginning to bruise, before pulling his shirt back down and ensuring it looked neat again. They’d probably fade, and if they didn’t they’d be covered by the top of his dress. His mind was returning to the task ahead of him, worrying about lip-sync format once more.

“These twists, I swear,” muttered Jujubee, fixing his hair in the mirror, “I don’t mind the change in format, but not knowing who I’m gonna be lip-syncing against is stressful.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”

“We work our asses off in the challenges and then some random queen comes in to assassinate us for five minutes with no stakes against them whatsoever?” Jujubee shook his head in frustration.

Raven leaned back against the sink, “They’ve got some really great people on the list.”

“Oh yeah? Like who?”

“I can’t tell you, that would be cheating,” replied Raven with a smile, gently pushing Jujubee’s arm.

“Coco Montrese? Alyssa Edwards?” asked Jujubee, staring intently at Raven, hoping he could get a hint out of him, “Sasha Velour?”

Raven shrugged, lips pressed shut. Jujubee racked his brain for queens that were known for successful lip-sync assassinations. He himself would have been on the list had he not been competing. Jujubee briefly considered it from the other side, damn it would have been fun.

“Chi Chi Devayne?” he continued, “Kameron Michaels? Dida Ritz? Monét X-Change? Shangela? Manila? Alaska-”

“Stop trying to guess,” interrupted Raven, rolling his eyes. A brief flash of insecurity. Interesting.

“You?” countered Jujubee. The room seemed smaller all of a sudden, more intimate.

“No.”

But Raven was avoiding eye contact, and he was shit at lying and always had been, so Jujubee’s smile just widened and he said, “Oh girl, you are on the list.”

“No, I’m not,” insisted Raven.

“Since when are you a lip-sync assassin?” mocked Jujubee.

“I’m not!” repeated Raven, and then he laughed, “But I did well in the lip-syncs on both my seasons, thank you very much.”

“Bitch, if I’m in the top this week and that screen rolls up and you’re standing there in one of your forty-seven blonde bob-cut wigs, I’m going to fucking walk off set.”

An evil grin split Raven’s face, “Oh, I would live for the drama.”

“If it’s a Robyn song I will personally kill RuPaul,” stated Jujubee.

“But then I’d be unemployed… ” sighed Raven dramatically, dipping his head back and draping his wrist over his eyes, “… and in this economy?“ 

Raven laughed at his own dumb joke. Jujubee narrowed his eyes and watched him for a moment, considering his strategy if he had to lip-sync against Raven. He wouldn’t put it past the production to somehow wrangle the two of them onto that runway together, once again. 

"It’s going to be a fun season, let me tell you that much,” said Raven.

“I’m sure,” replied Jujubee dryly, then he pushed Raven towards the door, “Get out of here, I need to actually piss like I said I would.”

Raven huffed a laugh and unlocked the door, glancing up and down the hallway before shutting it behind him. 

“Well that was a nice long bathroom break,” commented Cracker when Jujubee finally returned to set, “Are you early season girls getting old age special treatment? They barely let me piss.”

“I got some bad chicken earlier, that’s all girl,” dismissed Jujubee. But Mariah was giving him a suspicious side-eyed look and Jujubee was well aware that Mariah was nothing if not astute. Not that Jujubee necessarily had to keep what had happened between him and Raven a secret, but it wasn’t in his best interest to reveal it to the other girls just yet.

The next day they prepared for the Skin I’m In runway and Jujubee realized at the last minute that his dress didn’t cover the most prominent hickie. Damn it, Raven. And now Jujubee was getting some very suspicious looks, so he hiked the top of his dress up as far as it would go and hoped for the best. 

But after the runway and before Shea’s lip-sync battle, while Raven was over by the judges table touching up Ru’s makeup he glanced over and eyed Jujubee up and down, giving him a knowing, flirtatious look. Jujubee just shook his head slowly, nostalgic affection rising in him again despite his better judgement.

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: Love Is A Free Washer/Dryer

Rating: T Pairing: Shane/Female Farmer Tags: Fluff, Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Developing Relationship Word Count: 3000 Summary: Farm life doesn't come ready-made with modern conveniences, but Lydia's laundry situation evolves over the years. Strangely, every step of the way seems to mark a milestone in her relationship with Shane. Also on AO3. Notes: This is a story about laundry. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

When Lydia had lived in the city, when she’d worked at Joja, she’d carted a Ziploc bag of quarters up and down six flights of stairs to do her laundry—packing the machine as full as she could, making those two dollars stretch, and who cared if some of her towels ended up with weird splotches of color on them from being mixed with the wrong stuff? No one was looking at her towels. She worked too much to have people over, anyway.

She worked too much to have people.

And then, the move—to a ramshackle little cottage where she was lucky that the plumbing wasn’t in such bad shape. Robin told her so, anyway, upon initial inspection, and Lydia, knowing exactly nothing about pipes except to pour some Drano down them occasionally, had to take her word for it. Robin didn't charge her anything, and if she was trying to rip Lydia off, she'd have done that, right?

She washed her underwear in the sink when it was too dark to keep clearing the land or planting or watering or fertilizing or or or—and she leaned against the countertop to stay upright by the light of the single lamp. Her eyes were always at risk of closing. She'd woken up in the middle of the night on the floor more than once, freezing. Never bruised, so clearly some part of her had made a decision to lie down instead of another part of her making a decision to fall down. Her wardrobe had been replaced: jeans and flannels and t-shirts to match the new lifestyle, the old "sensible" high heels and pencil skirts and satin blouses left behind at her dad's. These new things could survive soaking in the ancient claw-foot tub and then being hung to dry on the line behind her house when the sun was hot enough.

There were no neighbors to see her kangaroo-patterned underwear flapping in the breeze.

Well, there was one neighbor. By some stretch of the word.

"Hey," Shane said, his voice a little gravelly and resentful. "Marnie asked me to deliver your new chicken."

His eyes were squinted up and red-rimmed in the bright summer sunshine. She felt a little red-rimmed herself, mostly from staying up until one in the morning to hang her laundry out on the lines before collapsing in bed. No big deal, she’d thought. No one would come by and see all her unmentionables.

She’d entirely forgotten the chicken.

Best to just forget the underwear, too. Either he’d look over to the left and see them, or he wouldn’t. He was rude, but probably not rude enough to comment on her choice of patterns.

"Perfect, thanks," she said, trying for brisk. "You think she'd like the coop better today? Or, I built an enclosure around it, you know, so she can be outside—too much, too early? What do you think?"

He gave her a somewhat-blank, somewhat-bemused stare. A feathered head with a particularly beady eye poked out of the basket to do the same.

"Let her loose outside and see what she does," he said, holding the basket out to her.

She made a few calculations. Saturday mornings were not the best time to push him; Friday nights were some of his worst, and the mood seemed to linger into the weekend. There was still the faint hint of beer lingering around him, and it was hard to tell if it was leftover from last night or if he'd started early this morning.

Well. What was life without a little risk? The things he'd said at the dock just a couple of weeks ago lingered in the back of her mind, and the last thing she wanted was to allow him to swiftly retreat back to the ranch and a six-pack.

Besides. She liked him, rude or not. She’d seen the suggestion of a dry humor during a couple of their previous conversations, and she wanted to see more of it.

"Let's head over to the coop, then," she suggested, pretending as if she hadn't noticed the attempt to offload the basket.

His eyes narrowed, just a little more, and as she brushed past him on the stairs she held her breath—bracing for a rude outburst, ready to take the basket he would undoubtedly thrust into her arms before storming off. But as she passed him, he let out an exasperated sigh, and his footsteps clunked on the stairs as he followed.

She was so smug in her victory that it came as a nasty shock when he commented, "Laundry day, huh?"

She glanced back in time to see him look away from the laundry lines—from the towels and the jeans and the t-shirts and, yes, the underwear. Had he seen the kangaroos? Could you make them out at this distance? She didn't dare look that way to be sure; her face was red enough as it was. She could pass that off as a sunburn, probably. She'd only learned the hard way, and recently, to be religious about sunscreen.

"Yeah," she said, making a stab at staying casual. "Best day of the week, right?"

"No dryer? Or are you just really trying to embrace the country lifestyle?"

There was a jab in there somewhere; she ignored it.

"No washer, no dryer," she said. "Guess Granddad did things the old-fashioned way."

They were on the path through a stand of pine trees, now, and the laundry was out of sight. She barely withheld a sigh of relief.

"Why?" she continued. "Is this how you're supposed to do things, out in the country? Am I doing it right?"

She smiled at him, so wide-eyed and guileless that he snorted in reaction. Maybe he was just laughing at her, the weird wannabe farm girl who wouldn't stop saying hello to him on the street no matter how many times he tried to put her off, but it was some version of a laugh.

"That why you're raising chickens now?" he said. "Trying to do things right?"

"I'm always trying to do things right," she said, knee-jerk, her mouth running ahead as fast as her brain could propel it. "Trying being the operative word."

He didn't laugh. Despite the lingering scent of beer, he gave her a considering, sidelong look. She pretended not to see it.

"Hey, Marnie’s decided to replace her old washer/dryer," Shane said, one night that first fall when he was fifteen days sober.

They were sitting by the big pond on her property, legs stretched out toward the campfire, backs braced against a sturdy log they'd hauled over just a week or so ago, and he looked both better and worse than she’d ever seen him look: better for the aggressive water-guzzling, worse for the hunted look in his eyes that said a beer would go down real nice right now. Better, but haggard for it, too.

He reached for another one of the lopsided pepper poppers. She had a ways to go for presentation, but clearly, they tasted good. She felt a swell of pride for that. That he liked anything she'd offered him—that was still new enough to delight her.

And that he broke a silence first, sometimes. That he sought her out instead of the other way around. That he'd spent today, a Saturday, his day off, helping her convince her new cow to follow her home from Marnie's ranch. That he'd laughed when they were both braced against the cow's backside, pushing, and she'd sworn reflexively like a violent sneeze when her feet slipped in the mud and he'd caught her by the elbow and hauled her back up and she'd felt a jolt in her chest like—

She stuck another marshmallow on her marshmallow-stick and held it out over the fire, firmly ignoring the dumb list-making that her brain did when it had a crush.

"That right?" she said, refocusing.

He kept a wary eye on her roasting marshmallow. "The dryer doesn’t dry so great." He pulled a face. "I mean, it’s slow as hell. Thirty years old and all. But it works. You want ‘em?"

She turned the marshmallow. It was really hard to ignore the crush when the crush remembered something that caused you an inconvenience and offered to fix it. She did her best, even though her heart beat a bit faster at the idea of a dryer. Even a thirty-year-old dryer.

"How much?" she asked. "I could really use them, but—"

"Lydia," he said, a stamp of exasperation—completely, totally familiar—imprinted on her name. It was how he usually said her name, but it had shifted over the last few months from aggravated exasperation to fond exasperation, and yes, there was totally a measurable difference. "They’re thirty fucking years old. They’re free."

Her eyes stung. She didn't dare blink; it would dislodge the completely excessive tears. She could pass off the glassiness in her eyes as the heat from the fire. Maybe. Hopefully.

She cleared her throat. "I’ll take them," she said. Her voice didn’t waver; that was something. "Thanks. I’ll rent a truck sometime this week—"

"You can just borrow ours," he interrupted again, and then, exasperation and fondness growing in equal measure, "You’re real bad at accepting help, huh?"

She managed a laugh. "It takes one to know one, right?"

He snorted—as good as agreement—and she started planning out how she’d get the machines hooked up, envisioning it, while Shane ate through another pepper popper and considered the pond.

"Thanks," she said again, because she thought it bore repeating.

He shrugged, shifted a little. "They're Marnie's machines."

"But you thought to offer them to me."

Was he blushing? No. Impossible. The firelight was just weird. He cleared his throat.

"Just seemed like you might want to keep your kangaroos out of the snow, with winter coming, and all," he said.

For an instant she was too apoplectic with embarrassment and anger and—yes, a little amusement—to react, and then she smacked him on the shoulder. "You looked?!"

He leaned slightly away from her, as if that put him out of range of future smacks. "You leave them hung up on lines in broad daylight!"

"That's not an invitation to—"

"I didn't go over and inspect them, or anything, just out of the corner of my eye while we were weeding—"

"Oh, I'm sure it was out of the corner of your eye—"

But it was impossible to keep up, this righteous indignation, when there was a hysterical laughter bubbling inside her that burst forth before she could keep talking, and he joined in, forehead thunking down on his knees, as she clutched her stomach and tears of mirth shook free from her eyes.

She dropped the marshmallow and the marshmallow stick, of course. The whole thing got subsumed into the fire. It only made them laugh harder.

And then, without thinking, as they started to get their breath back and the laughter wound down, she leaned sideways and dropped her head down to rest against his shoulder.

For a moment, he froze. She froze. Muscles tense, confused, reacting. She could still pull away, pass it off as a brief gesture of—of camaraderie, or something, instead of cuddling—

But then he relaxed, by increments; he didn't pull away. Though their arms were slightly squashed together, he shifted, just enough to take her hand in his.

This was still friendly, right? Just perfectly friendly. Nothing untoward, here. It would be a long time before he saw her kangaroos in any context besides on the laundry lines.

But. Maybe. Someday.

And then it was another fall—because time in the valley passed in a peculiar way, both too fast and too slow, and years seemed to go in great dollops sometimes—and the farm was doing good. Great, even. She had money left over, money used to make additions to the cottage and renovate the old cellar. And to move the washer/dryer inside, instead of huddling over it on the back porch.

This would all be wonderful, except that Lydia couldn’t actually find any of her laundry, and she knew she had plenty of it. Jeans splattered with mud. Flannels stiff with sweat. She'd looked forward to doing it inside, for the first time in literal years. Still in pajamas and with freezing toes, she made her way to the back of the house and poked her head through a door that still hadn’t quite been fixed with a handle. It was on the to-do list.

"Hey, Jas," she said. "You’re not playing some fun prank on me where you hide all my dirty laundry, right?"

Jas looked up from her book, quietly indignant in the way that only a nine-year-old could be. "Vincent hasn’t been over in a week," she said, trying a very dignified voice that really exercised Lydia’s poker face, "so unless it’s been missing that long—"

"No, no, I know. You wouldn’t. I can’t find anything, though."

"Maybe you already put it in the washer," Jas suggested, looking back down to her book, eyes already scanning. The first Harry Potter—she was halfway through, which was much further than she’d been a few hours ago.

"I’ll go check," Lydia agreed, though she was absolutely sure she would not have forgotten putting the first glorious load of laundry into a machine that was inside, "and then I’ll make some lunch, okay?"

"Can I eat in my room? I want to know what happens next."

Lydia grinned. "As long as you tell us all about what happened at dinner tonight."

Jas grinned back at her—not shy anymore. That, too, had been years ago. "Deal."

Lydia detoured back to her own bedroom for socks—the cellar got damn cold this time of year, and there was at least one fuzzy pair left in her dresser—and made the descent beneath the house. There was something a little creepy about it, always had been, but doubly so when she heard the sounds of movement below.

Halfway down the stairs, she froze. Shit, did they have rats, now? Just when things were going good—

But then there was a breath and a grunt, and she relaxed. There was something about knowing someone for three years that allowed you to recognize all their sounds and mannerisms and even their silhouette at a distance in dim light, in an instant, and she didn’t know why he was down in the cellar, but it was just Shane.

"Hey," she called, continuing on down the stairs, "have you seen my—"

She stopped dead at the bottom as he started and looked up at her. The whole western wall of the cellar had been cleared, the many racks of preserves jars and aging cheese shifted out of the way. Still organized, though. She could see even from here that her system had been preserved.

And in place of all of those rickety shelves were two gleaming machines that looked horrendously out of place in this early-twentieth-century-hole-underground, complete with some kind of built-in cabinets and tables in a nice honey-golden wood on which currently sat all of the clothes she was looking for, perfectly clean and nicely folded.

Shane shot her a glare over a pair of kangaroo-patterned underwear he was folding. What timing.

"If you’d given me maybe ten more minutes," he grouched, "I would’ve shouted surprise and everything." He sighed and ran a hand over his face, then gestured to the machines. "Tada?"

As if in slow motion, she realized: every time she’d been about to go down to the cellar these last few days, either Jas or Shane had distracted her and she’d forgotten her intentions entirely; there had been a few odd noises coming from the house when she’d been out in the field, but she’d discounted them as the wind, which was always sporadic and feisty in the valley this time of year; and her husband had done her laundry after assembling a new laundry station. That was what this was. A laundry station. A beautiful, wonderful laundry station.

Apparently she'd been quiet too long, because the exasperation on his face took on a bit of anxiety. "Don’t tell me you were attached to those old machines," he said. "The dryer took three hours to dry a couple of sweaters, Lyd."

She opened her mouth to say something, found her throat stuck fast, closed her mouth again, and shook her head. That much was safe.

"I read all the labels," he added, inspecting the folded clothes with a critical eye, "if that's what you're worried about. Everything washed per care instructions. No weird splotches or shrinkages."

He was going to keep running down the list if she didn't say something, but her heart was damn near bursting in her chest, which made speaking challenging. She'd felt about as overjoyed on their wedding day. She knew that this made her kind of weird.

"You built this?" she managed, though she sounded even to herself like she was getting over some kind of sinus infection. "It looks so nice."

The anxiety dropped away. He gave her an understanding, if exasperated, look. "If you cry over a washing machine again—"

"I’ve never cried over a washing machine before—"

"I was too polite to say anything at the pond that night," he said, now smiling in that way of his that had turned her heart for years, "but I saw—"

And then he didn’t get the chance to heckle her further, because she’d used her lightning speed and superior reflexes to dart across the cellar and kiss him thoroughly, which he reciprocated with enthusiasm, hoisting her up on top of the washer (a little clumsily) and knocking a stack of underwear to the floor. She burst out laughing but kept kissing him, and after a very halfhearted attempt to pull away, he allowed the underwear to languish on the floor.

"You're so fucking weird," he mumbled against her mouth. "You know that, right? You know that nobody else gets as excited as you do about laundry?"

She cupped his face in her hands, pressed her forehead against his. "I know how many books you have about chickens," she said. Threatened, really. "I'm in good company."

And it was a testament to the kind of day he was having—to the hard-fought ground he'd gained over the years—that he rolled his eyes and grinned at her and didn't argue.

[eldritchsurveys]

o66.

Have you ever been in a love triangle? >> No. How bad are your hangovers? >> The most I’ll get the morning after drinking is some brain fog and a sour stomach (nothing a good meal and a ginger gummy or two won’t fix) What color are your nails currently painted? How about your toenails? >> Black, but it’s chipping and peeling everywhere so I gotta get my executive function together and redo them. Would you rather have a $50 gift card to Starbucks or a $50 gift card to McDonald’s? >> Starbucks, because what I like from there is more expensive than the stuff I like from McD’s. Do you think Taco Bell is nasty? >> I don’t like everything they sell, of course, but in general I’m always down for some Taco Hell.

Do you have a jacuzzi? >> No. Have you ever broken a bone? If so, what was the cause of it? >> No. Do you still talk to the person you liked four months ago? >> Yeah. Where were you last night? >> Home. Are you afraid to tell your true feelings? >> I think the childhood-development root of my emotional reservation (aside from natural disposition, of course) is that I was taught to devalue my feelings, and that no one else really cared to hear about them. At this point, I know better (a lot of people don’t care, of course, and that’s fine, but there are also people that do), but the behaviour is independent of its root by now. It’s just what it is. Can you commit to one person? >> I suppose I could, technically, but there’s no reason I’d have to right now, so. Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night? >> No, I watched The Almighty Johnsons until I fell asleep. What movie do you want to see? >> There are a lot of them. Is this the best year of your life? >> I don’t know about best and worst and all of that. I know it’s been a good year to me overall. I’m not inclined to look negatively at anything that’s happened to me this year. What was the first thing you did when you woke up? >> I don’t remember. Probably looked at the time on my phone. Is anything bothering you? >> Nothing comes to mind.  Is life good? >> Life is what it is. But yes, I have an optimistic view of my life right now. Do you remember who you liked on New Years? >> Sure. Do you still like them? >> Sure. Do you still speak to them? >> Of course. Told your parents you were going somewhere but went somewhere else? >> I’ve done that before, yes. And it landed me in the psych ward, so.

Do you like being home alone or does it freak you out? >> I don’t like being home alone when my mind’s doing its delusion thing, because having someone around is grounding. But otherwise I’m fine with it. Would you ever kiss anyone you texted today? >> I haven’t texted anyone. But I’ve left comments today which is almost like texting, and sure, I’d kiss Hallie. Do you have any bruises on you? >> No. How was 2011 for you? >> Holy shit, uh... let me think... what even was 2011? The only thing I know is that I was with Hallie for at least a couple of months in that year, because I know I was there three winters in a row and 2012/2013 was the last one, so 2010/2011 and 2011/2012 are the other two. I don’t know where I was or what I was doing for the rest of the year, though... maybe I was at 7F, or maybe not... ugh, this is why I wish old accounts of mine were still active, so I could rebuild timelines.

Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream? >> I do sometimes. Honestly, have you ever crashed a party before? >> No. Do you hide things in your underwear drawer? >> No. Have you ever gone out in public in pajamas? >> Yeah, to go to the mailbox. Or, when I lived in NY, to go to the bodega. Because, like, who cares.

If you had to recommend a movie to somebody right now, what would it be? >> Keanu. It’s by two of my favourite comedians. It’s silly and it stars a gangster kitten, what more could you want?

Can you say “Sally sells seashells by the sea shore” fast without messing up? >> Yeah. Is your hair naturally straight, wavy, or curly? Do you like it? >> Naturally kinky. Meh.

Have you ever considered your mom to be your best friend? >> No. She’s not anything to me, in fact. Is there anything plaid near you? What is it? >> No. What is your opinion on tongue rings? Trashy or cute? >> They’re just piercings, I don’t really have a subjective opinion about them. What color do you think you look best in? >> Most of them, tbh. The last time you went out to eat - what did you order? >> The last food we got from somewhere that wasn’t the house was Burger King, and I got a chicken sandwich and fries and a Sprite. Was today a bad hair day for you? >> No. I did buzz my head again, so it’s actually a good hair day. Do you have all 32 teeth? >> No. Have you ever been sent a postcard in the mail? From who? >> I don’t remember. Probably not. Do you spend more time on your hair or your makeup? >> --- Do you know how to do the moon walk? >> Technically, yes, but I’m not completely efficient at it. How old were you in the year 2000? >> I turned 13. Which subject are you better at - science or history? >> I wasn’t particularly great at either one. What is one of your favorite comedy movies? >> Coming to America. Has anybody ever told you that you have a good singing voice? >> Yes. Do you have any plans tomorrow? What are they? >> I forget what we’re doing tomorrow, actually. Maybe going down to Wayland to see the kids again? Onion rings or french fries? >> French fries all the way. On a scale of 1-10 how lazy are you? >> I don’t know. I don’t like to think of myself as lazy because it’s an unnecessarily negative connotation used for a lot of what I think is perfectly reasonable behaviour. (Maybe some people are literally lazy. But I wouldn’t know.) When was the last time you ate a doughnut? >> A couple of days ago. Sparrow’s mother brought Krispy Kreme to Sparrow’s job when she brought Katie (Sparrow’s niece) in for a manicure, and Sparrow brought a doughnut home for me. Are you the youngest person living in your house? >> No. Has anybody ever described you as a heart breaker? >> No. Are you wearing pajamas right now? >> No, but my outfit could function as such, and will when I go to bed tonight. Has anybody ever told you that you talk too fast? >> Probably. I was a New Yorker, after all. But I think I talk pretty average now. Name something that is the same color as your eyes. >> Rich, fecund earth. Who is the best cook that you know? >> Hallie, probably :3 Which meal throughout the day do you skip the most? >> Breakfast, because by the time I eat the first meal of my day it’s usually around lunchtime. Can you name 3 different dinosaurs? >> Yeah, but I’ll let someone else do it. Have you ever completed the 99 bottles of beer on the wall song? >> No. When was the last time you attended a barbeque? >> I don’t remember. :( I miss bbqs. Did you have a party for your last birthday? >> No. One day, maybe. Do you know how to dance the electric slide? >> Yes. Are Frosted Flakes REALLY more than good? >> I don’t know, I do think they’re pretty GRRRReat though. What’s the largest amount that you can juggle at one time? >> Three, maybe, if I really focus. What was your favorite thing to go on at the playground as a kid? >> I don’t remember what I liked best as a child. I was a little freaked out by a lot of playground structures, but I did like the tire swing in Warinanco Park. And those plank bridges you run across. Do you know how much you weighed at birth? How much? >> Around six pounds, I think. How old were you when you learned how to ride a bike? >> I don’t know, six or so I guess.

Where do you spend most of your time at? >> Home.

What noise does your favorite animal make? >> Otters make funny noises, snakes hiss, I don’t know what capybaras do. Do you have a garden shed in your backyard? >> I don’t have a backyard. Who is the tallest person you know and how tall are they? >> I don’t know who’s the tallest, I know several people over six feet. What was your lowest mark on your previous report card? >> ---

[kkimingyu]

alphabet tag

ahh im really excited to do this becuase i love these sorts of things~~~ honestly feel free to tag me for bloody anything ill do it i promsie 

thank you to @softlysweetlystan for tagging me!! ily (really i love doing these...))

A: AGE - ah i wont give the exact number but im a little under 18

B: BIRTHPLACE - England!! i come from london~~

C. CURRENT TIME - 3:09pm and im still in my pyjamas lol

D: DRINK YOU HAD LAST - water

E: EASIEST PERSON TO TALK TO - probably my best friend?? or my brother maybe....

F: FAVORITE SONG - ah im so bad at picking a favourite so ill give a few... i like contral by gfriend uhh also if i by seventeen... ah yeah by exid 

G: GROSSEST MEMORY - i cant really remember anything that nasty tbh... although once when i was like 5 i peed on someone i guess thats gross 

H: HOGWARTS HOUSE - gryffindor apparently (idk tho tbh)

I: IN LOVE? -  jeon wonwoo... lol no im kidding but not really, i love my friends

J: JEALOUS OF PEOPLE - im jealous of people who are tall ahah and good at maths

K: KILLED SOMEONE - have i killed someone?? no..

L: LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT OR SHOULD I WALK BY AGAIN - i mean ive never fallen in love at first sight or really anything tbh but it could happen i guess

M: MIDDLE NAME - louise but everyone things its eloise 

N: NUMBER OF SIBLINGS - i have two older brothers!! ((everyone complains about having siblings but i love it really)

O: ONE WISH - to be taller lol

P: PERSON YOU CALLED LAST - my brother who was kinda drunk and told me i was drunk

Q: QUESTION YOU ARE ALWAYS ASKED - how tall are you... are you the shortest in your class.... 

R: REASON TO SMILE- it may be winter but summer will come soon 

S: SONG YOU SANG LAST - oh um... uhh oh i remembered! i sang a song from bobs burgers earlier

T: TIME YOU WOKE UP - today i woke up at 7:30 then fell back asleep and woke up again at 10:20 i think

U: UNDERWEAR COLOR - light blue with stripes...

V: VACATION DESTINATION - like where i want to go? i want to go to italy some time... im going to japan in a few years which im so excited about tbh like ive never been to asia and i love learning about culture

W: WORST HABIT - not eating but its getting better!! also not doing homework and having to do it in the morning before school ((which im actually really good at doing like ive developed a serious talent) 

Y: YOUR FAVORITE FOOD - i love italian food... i love it, its so tasty but right now my favourite food is olives- i went to a friends house the other day and had the best olives but i also really like fudge, theres this fudge i buy at christmas time when the german market is happening thats so goood

X: X-RAYS - ive had a brain scan... does that count idk

Z: ZODIAC SIGN - capricorn!

tagging: (idk how many people to tag) @toofarfromsugar @calemiel @maenie @22wooji @chouxiu @ssoftgyu @lovjeon @myungho @monstaxunni and anyone else who wants to do it!!

obviously you dont have to do it but yeah! again i really love doing these so feel free to tag me in anything 

[milliebeeweasel]

I read Cassie Clare’s Draco Dormiens, so you don’t have to

So Cassie Claire.

She’s a world-famous author, an Internet-famous plagiariser, and I am a little nobody with a masochistic streak a mile wide and too much curiosity for my own good.  So I decided to read Draco Dormiens: the early-2000s fanfic that propelled Cassie into her writing career, and turned a shitload of people against her because plagiarism.

Cassie was 27 when she wrote this.  It made her a BNF.  It was huge.  So it has to be good, right?

Um.

Well.

Let me take you on a sporkful journey.  A journey into OOC weirdness, Hermione yo-yo-knickers, gentle canon divergence and blatant canon destruction.  We’ll come out haggard and exhausted and wondering what the hell we just saw, but then we can all sit together and laugh soullessly about it over beers.

Also, since Cassie mercilessly rips off funnier people than her, I’m going to do the same.  It’s a theme.

Draco Dormiens, it goeth thusly.

The basic premise is a Harry-Draco bodyswap fic.  Since this was written before the release of Order of the Phoenix, it starts with a fifth year potions lesson.  Snape is teaching the class about polyjuice potions, and forces everyone to temporarily swap bodies so they can see its affects.  He pairs Harry and Draco, which is in-character because he’s making Harry suffer, but also wildly out of character, because he’s making Draco suffer, too.

Anyway, Harry and Draco chug their polyjuice potions and bitch for a while about how awful it is to be each other.  Draco particularly whinges about Harry’s bitten nails, because his own are like, professionally manicured by house elves.

Take a moment to let that sink in.  Dobby the nail technician.

I digress.  When the class turns back, Harry and Draco don’t. Draco checks his Rolex—and my brain does a spit-take because why the fuck is Draco wearing Muggle apparel?—and says they should be back to normal now.  Harry, thinking Draco’s spiked the potion, starts throwing punches.  I mean, he never threw a punch in a lifetime of Dudley’s bullying, but I guess now’s a fine time to start?  The fight ends with Draco knocking Harry the fuck out, and then realising he’s still stuck in Harry’s body.  Harry (still looking like Draco) is taken to the Hospital Wing, where Madam Pomfrey’s like, ‘No problem, Dracey-poo will be out cold for the night and all better in the morning!’

She um.  She doesn’t use magic to heal him or anything.

This is a recurring theme in Draco Dormiens.  Magical healing is mostly ignored for plot purposes, and suddenly pops up when it’s convenient.

At this point, you’d think Draco would point out he’s Draco, and the unconscious Draco is actually Harry, but he … doesn’t?  Draco essentially says to himself, ‘I AM THE GREETEST, I WILL BE HARRY POTTER NOW, FOR NO RAISINS!’ and continues to follow Harry’s timetable and never inform anyone of what happened.

So we get some bumbling comedy while Draco tries to be Harry, including him being exceptionally nasty to Cho Chang, revealing that Goyle wears ladies’ underwear, and eventually snogging Hermione.  You know, the Mudblood he loathes.

If your brain just slammed on the brakes, don’t worry.  That’s normal.

Meanwhile, Harry wakes up in the Hospital Wing screaming he’s not Draco Malfoy.  Rather than gently calming him and getting an explanation so this whole contrived plot can be repaired, Madam Pomfrey knocks him the fuck out again and calls for Lucius Malfoy to take him home.

Harry, buddy, you might want to get a CAT Scan when you wake up.  I hear being unconscious is super bad for you.

So Draco finds out Harry’s been carted off by his dad and understandably flips out, because he thinks Lucius is going to realise he’s basically got Harry captive and murder him, leaving Draco stuck as Harry forever.  If you’re thinking a) polyjuice potion doesn’t work like that, or b) if it did, Lucius would be smart enough to not just murder Harry and ruin Draco’s life, your mind is in the wrong place for this fanfic.

Hermione catches Draco in the library, being swooned over by Cho Chang because apparently all she really wanted was a bad boy.  You know, like Cedric Diggory.  That real bad boy Hufflepuff she dated.  (Speaking of which, Cedric Diggory is not mentioned once in this fic.  Ever. Voldemort’s return is barely referenced until halfway through.)

BRB, rolling my eyes to space.

When they’re alone, Draco finally, finally admits to Hermione that he’s not Harry Potter.

And she punches him.

A lot.

I mean, I guess it’s technically more in-character for Hermione, but still.  They’re in a library.  Respect for the books, yo.

When she’s eventually got all the punching out, Draco uses a truth spell on himself to prove he didn’t fuck this up on purpose.  Now. This was another brain-stop moment, because I know that veritaserum was in Goblet of Fire, and the spell Draco uses is ‘veritas’.  But Hermione freaks because it’s DARK MAGIC and BAD and YOU SHOULDN’T DO THAT, even though good characters use veritaserum in Goblet of Fire with no problem.  On the other hand, Hermione recovers enough to ask Draco if he’s ever had sex in order to humiliate him (he hasn’t).  How heroic.

Draco does point out around now that he and Harry have a kind of mental link, and it’s making him do all kinds of nice stuff like saving Hermione from bludgers and Neville from bullies.  Character development?  Eh.

Hermione and Draco decide to go to Malfoy Manor and rescue Harry, leaving Ron behind because they’d have to explain everything to him, and that’s just such a bother.

Don’t worry, Ron.  You’re actually getting off lightly, tbh.

Harry, in the meantime, wakes up in Malfoy Manor and plays along as Draco so he won’t get out-and-out murderkilled by Lucius.  Now, Lucius in the books was implied to be cold with Draco, but still fond of him.  Lucius in Draco Dormiens is full on, no holds barred abusive to both Draco and Narcissa, and also a total sex fiend who repeatedly cheats on Narcissa and attempts to assault Hermione.

But we’ll get to that later.

After some hilarious banter with McNair, where Lucius reveals Dumbledore straight-up cold-blooded killed a man ("And when Zabini tried to send the boy an exploding broom, Dumbledore intercepted it and sent it right back in a different package. They had to bury Zabini in a matchbox!"), Harry discovers the Death Eaters have captured Sirius.  Narcissa faints; Harry tries to deck Lucius to get to Sirius; Lucius locks Harry in Draco’s room, and saunters off to stick Sirius in the dungeon and, presumably, gloat him to death.

At this point, Hermione and Draco make it to Malfoy Manor and Draco does a few spells to get them inside. I want to make a point of that. Draco performs a few spells.  It takes up maybe a page, at a push.  This is important later.

(This, also, is the first time I spotted a quote definitely lifted from Blackadder, when Draco dives in the way of an arrow to save Hermione and gets it in the leg, and she comments, ‘Six inches to the left and grandchildren would’ve been out of the question.’)

They burst into the bedroom where Harry’s locked up, and Harry proceeds to get irrationally angry because Hermione and Draco were holding each other for dear life as they crashed wildly through the window.  It turns out this irrational anger is contagious, as the three of them continue to pointlessly argue for the rest of the fic, mostly about which of the two boys Hermione wants to bang most.  It’s a wonder Harry manages to actually tell them Sirius is in the dungeon, smh.

Lucius arrives and Draco and Hermione hide in the wardrobe.  Only after Harry’s walked off to the dungeons with Lucius does Draco point out the wardrobe locks from the outside, so they’re now stuck.  This, of course, is a perfect opportunity for them to get drunk on butterbeer and make out.  Because why not?

Harry gets to Sirius and is miraculously left alone with him.  Sirius can smell that he’s really Harry, and this makes perfect sense because he’s a dog half the time.  What doesn’t make sense is Hermione’s constant musings that she can also smell the difference between Harry and Draco, who smell like a variety of painfully fanficcy nonsense, from coffee to maple syrup to lime and I cringed every time.

Anyhoo, Sirius tells Harry that it’s super weird Narcissa married Lucius because Narcissa was totes a nice girl at school and I started going cross-eyed at this point because I couldn’t believe I was watching a Sirius/Narcissa plotline emerge.

Harry nances back up to the bedroom to enlist Draco and Hermione’s help in saving Sirius, and goes apeshit when he catches them snogging.  Not at Draco—no, no, no.  Entirely at Hermione.

You know, if I left my female friend locked in a wardrobe with a guy I didn’t trust further than I could throw him, and then opened the wardrobe and found them all over each other, I’d kind of … assume it was the guy’s fault?  Like, my first instinct would be to push him off and check the girl’s all right, that he wasn’t assaulting her.

Not Harry.

Nope.

This is all definitely Hermione’s fault.

And I’d judge Harry for this, but Hermione’s actions over the next few chapters kind of explain his response.  I lost count of how many times she kissed Harry, then Draco, then Harry, then Draco, and got angry with both of them if they dared be upset at her constant cheating. Bella Swan was positively decisive compared to DD!Hermione.

After more mind-numbing bickering, they stick Draco under the invisibility cloak, what with him looking like Harry and all, and all head back to the dungeon to save Sirius. However, they’re caught by Lucius Malfoy, who somehow completely doesn’t recognise Hermione, who Harry introduces as his—Draco’s—girlfriend, a Ravenclaw and totally not a muggleborn at all.  Nope.

Also he kisses her.

Because you know. Hermione hasn’t done enough kissing yet. Not by a wide margin.

Lucius sends Harry away, and the instant he’s alone with Hermione he proceeds to pounce on her like a sexually starved dog attacking someone’s leg.  I’m a damn strong advocate for not censoring sexual violence in fiction, but this scene doesn’t further the plot in the least and has basically no emotional effect on Hermione after the fact.  It’s pointless.  Deeply uncomfortable, and pointless.

Welp, Draco chases his dad off Hermione by throwing shit at him from under the cloak, kinda like Harry throwing mud at Draco in Prisoner of Azkaban, and before Lucius runs off Hermione notices he’s clutching some ugly-ass necklace with a tooth in it.

Hmm.  I’m sure that’s not plot relevant at all!

A bunch of shenanigans happen that I don’t remember all too well because I read this whole fic in one evening at midnight, but eventually another Death Eater recognises Hermione, and Lucius gets right down to torturing her so she’ll tell him where Harry is, because he sent an owl to Hogwarts to lure Harry in to save Sirius so they could capture him and—

Wow.  Déjà vu.  This, um. This was actually written before Order of the Phoenix.

Huh.

Anyway, eventually Draco can’t stand it anymore and bursts out from under the cloak all, ‘TIS I, HAROLD POTTERSON, PLEASE DESIST!’ and Lucius totally desists so he can capture Draco and toss Hermione in the dungeon with Sirius.  I think Harry gets sent to Draco’s room again.  I think?

But basically he gets out and goes to save Sirius and Hermione, but you can’t get into the dungeon unless you’ve got Malfoy blood in your veins, so he sneaks to Draco, who’s now locked in a sparkly magic cage.  Harry decides to take the phrase ‘Malfoy blood in your veins’ 100% literally, and just straight up steal a bunch of Draco’s blood.  So of course they painstakingly set up a magical blood transfusion and—

Hahaha, just kidding! Harry slices their palms open with a knife and they hold hands until probably he’s got some Malfoy blood in him.

At this point, you may be wondering why the polyjuice potion hasn’t automatically turned Harry’s blood into Draco’s, since it turned the rest of him into Draco.  If so, stop thinking.  You’re not allowed to do that.

Also, what I haven’t mentioned until now is that this fanfic comes with artwork.  Wall-eyed anime Draco holding a black rose is the cover art, and it’s peppered throughout with crappy pencil sketches, mostly of Hermione swooning over either Harry or Draco.  It’s honesly worth reading the fic just to cringe at the illustrations.

Anywhoo, Harry runs back to the dungeons to release Sirius and Hermione, and then they meet Narcissa Malfoy, who tells them a) Voldemort is totes here already to kill Harry (Draco), and b) that ugly necklace of Lucius’s is actually a curse on Draco, so if the necklace breaks, he dies.  This is the only reason she’s stayed with Lucius all this time.  Poor battered wife Narcissa.

Boo.

They also learn that Voldemort isn’t going to kill Harry—instead he’s going to do some ridiculously convoluted magic to give Harry a magic metal arm that kills Muggles and Muggleborns, and then set him out with the Imperius Curse to kill people.  Why he wouldn’t just … give Harry a knife and send him out under the Imperius Curse to kill people is never explained.

Whatever.  Voldemort arrives and Draco makes some cutting remarks about him being ugly, because that’s a smart move?  Voldy realises pretty sharpish that Draco isn’t Harry, because Draco doesn’t scream bloody murder when Voldy pokes him in the face.  Then Voldemort removes the spell from polyjuice potion.

With two words.

He uses finite incantatem.

I’m serious, that’s it. Other characters have used finite incantatem several times throughout the fic, but apparently none of them thought to check if it would reverse the polyjuice potion.  This does get elaborated on later, but still, none of the characters questioned it. None of them said, ‘Oh duh, we should totally have tried that!’  I may have screamed into a pillow a little.

Anyway, Draco turns back to Draco and Harry turns back to Harry, and Harry possibly makes out with Hermione again.  Everything at this point is pretty fuzzy because it was getting late and I was on the brink of wishing for death.

EDIT: Because I can’t believe I forgot to add this before: Draco’s full name in this fic is Draco Thomas Malfoy.  Thomas.  After Tom Riddle.  He’s named after his Uncle Voldy.  Yes, that in an actual tear on my cheek.

Harry decides he can’t just leave Draco behind, so Hermione messes with the metal arm gadget and he whacks it on and storms in on the Death Eaters.  Voldemort starts monologuing, saying the instant Draco turned back to himself he told Voldy everything and totes betrayed Harry and Hermione.  Because you know, without the magical link to Harry, Draco’s just plain evil.

Then Voldy puts Harry under the Imperius Curse and … Harry just kinda tosses it off?  He throws out a line like, ‘You know the Imperius Curse doesn’t work on me!’ as if it’d been foreshadowed in any way at all, and I narrowed my eyes and sighed and moved on.

Harry uses the metal hand to fire lasers at all the Death Eaters, which doesn’t kill them since Hermione tinkered with it, but sends them all super far away.  That should be helpful … for like three minutes.  They’re adult wizards.  They can apparate.  Ugh.

Well, they don’t apparate. Harry takes off the metal arm and he, Hermione and Sirius march out of Malfoy Manor together.

This ought to be the end of the fic, right?  Harry and Draco are back to normal.  Voldemort was faced and defeated.  Just gotta wrap up the loose ends and all done, surely?

So imagine my surprise when I glance up at the top of my PDF and realise I’ve got over half the fic to go.

O-okay?

The crew grab Draco before he can scarper, because they want his help getting out of the Manor, since it’s all cursed and shit.  Now, remember when I said that getting in took a couple of spells and maybe a page?

Getting out takes ten times as long.

Yeah, suddenly Malfoy’s garden is full of hexes and booby traps and really, painfully obviously-stolen-from-Blackadder lines that Draco has to lead them all through.  (And yes, at this point I’d noticed several plagiarised lines, most of them cited half-arsedly at the end of their chapter.)

The whole way, Harry and Hermione are sulking because they think Draco betrayed them, Draco’s sulking because he didn’t betray them but they think he did, and Sirius is essentially me, face-palming at the idiot teenagers the whole way.

Eventually they get to this chasm, and Draco makes a magic path for them to cross.  Harry falls off, screaming ‘I LOVE YOU’ at Hermione, who is so dense she immediately convinces herself he couldn’t possibly have said that. Draco legs it back towards the manor alone, because I guess he’s still a prick.

Harry has some weird fever dream about Hermione in a yellow dress as he’s falling, and then he’s suddenly in the back of Arthur Weasley’s flying car with Ron and Fred and George, and honestly it took me half a page to realise the flying car wasn’t part of the fever dream.  Turns out Ron got the owl from Lucius Malfoy and came flying to the rescue with Fred and George, and they saw Harry fall and caught him.

They fly Harry back up to Hermione, who cries a lot, and while Sirius runs off to get Draco, Ron suddenly becomes Harry’s Life Coach is all like, ‘Harry, my man, my bud, pls tell Hermione how you feel about her now, we literally cannot stand this love triangle for another page.’

So Harry goes off to do just that, and Hermione.  Hermione. Hermione.  Twists everything he says, cries again, says she can never be with him because she loves him too much and it scares her, says she’s safer with Draco who can’t hurt her, and runs off sobbing.

Have I mentioned Hermione is kind of the worst?

Yeah.

Cassie broke Hermione. Thanks, Cassie.

Meanwhile, Sirius finds Draco and has a heart-to-heart with him, essentially saying that Draco reminds him of him, what with the Death Eater parents and the shitty home life, and that he learned to be friends with James and that was cool, so why not be friends with Harry?  Draco grumbles but comes with him, and I check the numbers at the top and still like, 100 A4 pages to go, what the fuck?

As Sirius and Draco return, Lucius Malfoy apparently remembers how to apparate and does so, right in front of them all.  He tries to kill Harry but Draco’s like ‘DADDY NO!’ and jumps in the way in an elegant and moving rendition of the climax from Pocahontas.

Lucius decides fuck it, he can make more babies, and goes to crush the necklace.  But Hizzle P. and da Crew dive in to stop him, and shove him in the trunk of the Ford Anglia.  Draco, however, is now basically dying from a dent in the necklace, so they rush him to Hogwarts.

There’s a lot of wrapping up at this point, but basically Draco goes to the Hospital Wing to get fixed up, Lucius Malfoy gets thrown to the Aurors, Narcissa agrees to testify against him.  It’s all looking like we’re heading for a happy ending.

And I look up.

Ninety.  Fucking.  Pages. Left.

‘Everything’s done!’ I’m screaming.  ‘What more is left to discuss!?’

Well, two things. First of all, Dumbledore has to sweep in and explain how Super Special both Harry and Draco are.  Apparently they’re both Magids, a stupid word Cassie made up for this fic, which basically makes them … super wizards?  I guess? It’s not terribly clear.  Either way, Dumbledore also says this is why Voldemort wanted to kill Harry as a baby and I cackled wildly because hindsight is 50/50 when you’ve read all seven books.  He also says Draco is a Magid, and Draco accidentally made the polyjuice potion permanent, and Voldemort is a Magid, and that’s why his finite incantatem stopped the spell.

Oh, you may be thinking, that’s nice.  At least that got explained.

Except.

EXCEPT.

ANY ONE OF THEM COULD HAVE AT LEAST TRIED FINITE INCANTATEM. DRACO COULD EVEN HAVE JUST ASKED SNAPE FOR HELP.  BUT NO. THIS WHOLE MESS JUST HAD TO HAPPEN.

MAGIDS IS A TERRIBLE EXPLANATION.

Well fine.  Draco also kind of hand-waves a half-arsed reason for wanting to be Harry—because apparently Harry is just so popular and well-liked, and poor woobie Draco isn’t.  At this point I think my eyes start melting out their sockets, because Harry is regularly despised by his classmates throughout the books, but fine. Whatever.  I just want this trainwreck finished.

But wait.

There’s still so, so much more.

What follows is pages and pages of Hermione humming and harring over Draco and Harry.  It’s dumb.  It’s agony.  I wanted to shake her, shake the author, shake the whole world, as I skimmed this drivel.  I wanted Harry and Draco to say fuck her, to admit they were each gayer than a rainbow parade and fly away together in the Ford Anglia like the end of Grease.

But no.  Finally, fucking finally, Harry finds the Mirror of Erised, hereafter to be known as the Mirror of Plot Convenience, and Hermione sees herself standing with Harry.  She decides he must be the one for her, and I’m put out of my fucking misery.

Siiiigh.

Draco Dormiens ends with a letter from Sirius to say that Narcissa’s getting divorced from mean old nasty Lucius, and she’s going to marry Sirius instead—and with hysterical screaming laughter from me.

  So that’s Draco Dormiens.

I’ll give Cassie Claire this: she’s good at creating hooks to propel you through the plot.  Even as I shook my head and tutted and rolled my eyes and screamed into pillows at the stupidity, I never stopped reading.  Each chapter gave me another hook—okay, so what’s Harry going to do; what about that necklace; how do they free Draco?

But oh my god, it was stupid.

Every character did something that felt just plain wrong at least once. Especially Hermione.  Hermione was the most painfully out of character: bitchy, selfish, hysterical, utterly awful.  A few times in the fic, Cassie mentions that Hermione doesn’t cry often. But that’s not true.  Hermione cries all the way through this fic.  If she’s not sobbing, she’s on the verge of tears.

I’m an absolute sucker for redemption arcs, but making Draco a poor, abused woobie in order to turn him good felt cheap and unrewarding.

And, of course, the plagiarism.  Jesus Christ.

Other people have covered this much better than me, but yes, I spotted several pinched or reworded lines in the fic.  This wouldn’t usually bother me in a not-for-profit fanfic, but Cassie did profit from her fanfic, in more ways than one (please, please read the exposé, it’s fascinating).  It also meant that, every time I saw a witty or well-written line I didn’t recognise, my instinct was to wonder where she’d stolen it from.  It’s really awkward to read with that level of paranoia hanging over you.

It’s not the worst fanfic I’ve ever read.  It’s not My Immortal level ridiculous or Master of the Universe level offensive.  If you’ve got nothing to do of an evening, it’s amusing enough for a few hours to laugh at the missteps—I honestly can’t believe a 27-year-old wrote DD; her craft is terrible—and it’s got enough plot to keep you relatively interested between the what-the-fuckery.

Just … have some paracetamol handy for when you’re done.  And a stiff drink.