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RPF
OK, so I was going to edit it into something less embarrassing and squicky, but I decided to just dump it into the world as it is because I'm a bit of a masochist really. And I only ever write anything if I REALLY REALLY need to get it out of my brain because it's driving me mad. And that doesn't happen very often, which is why I never write anything and below you will find the proof of why me never writing anything is a Very Good Thing Indeed.
It is entitled: RPF: the case against and it is RPF. It is David/Sophia RPF. With a gun. There is sex in it, and cold-blooded murder. Just so you know. DON'T READ IT. Also, it is for grown-ups only, due to sex and killing and immensely gratuitous use of the f-word.
"OK, can we back up for a second and pretend that you're the internet geek and I'm just someone who occasionally books a flight with EasyJet and regularly forgets her own email address?" Sophia doesn't do sarcasm very often and she decides to ignore the fact that she's made herself come off slightly worse in the attempt as she lathers up her hair, staring at David shaving in front of the sink wearing a pair of Dangermouse boxer shorts. She leans back in the bath again, poking her toes out of the water and wriggling them in what she believes to be a sexy manner. "What the fuck is RPF?"
David turns around with a face full of foam. "Real Person Fiction. It's a kind of fanfic." He scans her face for any sign that she is following his train of thought, but finds none. "You know what fanfiction is, right?"
"I'm not a fucking moron, David. Fanfiction, yeah. When internet nerds write stories about the Doctor shagging Rose on the TARDIS console, that sort of thing."
"That's a bit of a harsh generalisation, Sophia, but yes." David smiles at her in that slightly patronising way he tends to do sometimes when talking geek at her, "Well," he continues, "RPF is like that, only it features real live people."
Sophia looks at him, slightly shocked. "What, like this?"
David blinks, "Like what?"
She gestures vaguely around the room, mumbling "bath, sink, Dangermouse, EasyJet," she catches his eye and decides to cut her losses while she can. She sighs, "Like you and me, you mean?"
"It wouldn't usually involve you and me specifically, no." He pauses in that way he does when he thinks she needs some time to take in what he's saying as he turns back towards the mirror and finishes lathering up his face. "You see, our sexual relationship is canon, and therefore doesn't really require the intervention of fanfic to make it any more real. Writing about you and me would just amount to making up a story about the nature of our private and/or sex life, and not even the most batshit fan would go there, because it's just kind of sick, if you follow me."
"Yes, I follow you, but thanks for your concern for my tiny little female brain," she scowls at him behind his back, "and I do wish you'd stop using words like canon and batshit, it really puts me off. I like to pretend that you're a perfectly normal person. It makes me feel better about myself, generally, and my attraction to you, specifically."
David continues as though she hasn't actually spoken at all, "So RPF has a tendency to focus on relationships that are more on the wishful thinking end of the spectrum, like, say, me fucking Liz Sladen."
Sophia blinks for a second. "But you have fucked Liz Sladen, surely?"
He pauses, staring wistfully into space, "Yes," he sighs happily, "yes, I have."
His reverie is broken by a quick snap of Sophia's fingers, "David!"
He blinks, "Sorry. The point is, not a lot of people know that, so they make up stories about it, and post them on the internet. And that is what we call RPF."
Sophia watches him as he continues shaving. He's taking that tone with her again, like he did that time when she foolishly admitted the only song she remembered from the 80's was Kylie and Jason's Especially for You, and she's keen to change the subject back to the original question. "OK, so, back to this girl you've been talking to on AIM, then. Who is she, and why have you invited her round to the flat?"
"Well," says David, intermittently poking his tongue into his cheek as men tend to do when trying to impress a woman with their shaving skills as if it's some sort of dark art like voodoo or using an angle grinder, "she wrote some. Some RPF. Someone alerted me to it a week or so ago." He rinses his razor and starts lathering up again. "I didn't read all of it, it was tediously long, as these things tend to be, but it seemed to involve me fucking Billie behind your back."
Sophia sits up suddenly, spitting bubbles into the bath. "Piper? That's just gross."
"My point exactly. Anyway, somewhere along the line in chapter God knows what of God knows how many, you get hit by a car."
"I fucking what?"
"You get hit. By a car. And end up in hospital. And then you need an operation and I kind of stopped reading after that because the grammar was getting to me. But that's the general gist of it. And she presented this chapter like it was some sort of laughfest, like a 'ha ha, Sophia gets hit by a fucking car, hooray!!' kind of thing, and so I decided to invite her round, have a bit of a chat." David runs the tap and rinses his face. He turns to look at her, drying his face with a towel, and walks off into the bedroom.
She can hear him rummaging around and dunks her head under the water, rinsing her hair before getting out and following him, not even bothering to grab a towel. "What are you doing?"
David is on his hands and knees, looking under his side of the bed. For reasons best left to the undoubtedly active imagination of the average RPF connoisseur, she loves it when he's on all fours and she momentarily forgets what they were talking about as she stares at him. He looks at her, she's naked and dripping onto the carpet, a small nest of bubbles still clinging to her left shoulder. "Where's our toy bag?" he asks matter-of-factly, one hand feeling its way around underneath the bed and finding absolutely nothing.
Sophia smirks, "It's on my side, remember?" She gives his arse one last admiring glance as he gets up and walks to the other side, retrieving the bag and dropping it unceremoniously onto the bed. "Got plans?" she asks, lying down on top of the covers next to the bag, striking a pose that experience has taught her he finds seductive.
David starts emptying out the bag with no real care or attention, flinging the contents this way and that. "I always have plans." He looks up and winks at her before turning his attention back to the bag.
The realisation begins to dawn on her that he's not got the bag out for her benefit and she pouts a little, disturbed by his lack of interest as he flings a pair of wrist cuffs across the room. Then suddenly something hits her in the eye. "OI!" She looks down to see what it is, "you hit me with a flogger!"
David looks up, puzzled, "That's what it's for, isn't it?"
"No, just now, in the face. You hit me with it." She holds it up by the offending handle, running her fingers through the tresses like she's straightening a child's unruly hair. "Nice one, too. Bastard."
"Oh. I'm sorry,” he says, a very dirty look beginning to spread across his features, "I'll make it up to you." His right hand is still in the bag, hidden from view, and he smirks as he pulls it out.
He's holding a gun.
Sophia shifts on the bed as she watches him caress it with his other hand like it's just another dildo. He smirks at her and hands it over. "It's a Walther PPK. That's James Bond's gun, did you know that?"
She takes the gun from his hands hesistantly, "No, David, I did not know that. And I've been meaning to ask you why there's a gun in our toy bag ever since I found it the other day." She handles the gun, surprised at its pleasing texture and temperature, "Why, David, is there a gun in our toy bag?"
He looks at her, licking his lips as she fondles the Walther before he answers, "It's as good a place as any to keep a gun."
"Right," she can't really argue with that logic and decides to leave it, "and what, exactly, are you planning on doing with James Bond's gun, if you don't mind my asking?"
He takes the gun back and twirls it in his hand like the star of a cheesy western would, were it the sort of gun that would be used in a cheesy western, which it isn't, being as it is, a Walther PPK, which is James Bond's gun. "I just want to give her a fright, that's all. Nothing major." He puts it down on the nightstand and turns his attention back to Sophia, only just noticing that she hasn't actually dried herself off. He shakes his head disapprovingly and looks her up and down. "You're all wet."
"You know me so well." She licks her lips as she says it, knowing it's all the invitation he needs. And sure enough, the Dangermouse boxers swiftly end up amongst the toys at the end of the bed as he climbs on top of her, quickly licking the last of the bubbles off her shoulder before plunging into her hard and fast and deep.
"Ohhh fuck." Sophia wraps her legs around his hips and looks at him. "You know, David…oh yes…I'm glad people don't…ah…write RPF about us." She pauses and smacks his arse, hard. "Fuck. Me. Harder."
"Anything you say," he says, and does just that. "Why are you…OH…glad about that, then?"
"Because it would…ah God!…probably involve lots of vague…ah!…innuendo and casually…Oooh…hinted at kinks…fuckyes…without ever going deeper! into anything of any…OH!…substance and it certainly...ohGodyes...wouldn't involve a...FUCK!...gun of any kind."
David stops mid-thrust, "Really?", he plunges into her again and stays there, grinding his hips, staring over her shoulder, deep in thought, "I would have thought it would involve a gun. Maybe we'd end up going on a killing spree in the Nevada desert, just you and me, like Juliette Lewis and Woody Harrelson, only..." he pauses, looking rather pleased with himself, "...attractive."
She squirms beneath him, grinding back and smiling at the thought. "You think so?"
He circles his pelvis against her clit, grinning, "Yeah, you know, maybe the first one would be an accident but then...ohhhh," he moans, feeling her beginning to clench around his cock, "...then we'd get a taste for it. For blood. And death. And carnage. And we'd get ourselves a semi-automatic and shoot our way through the Southwestern United States, killing Yanks left right and centre, only pausing every once in a while to fuck each other into a hot and sweaty mess in the blazing Arizona sun."
Sophia writhes and starts to pant, teetering on the edge but not willing to end the conversation just yet. "Could we end up in Vegas and be married by Elvis?"
He suddenly pulls out of her, studying her face to see if she's joking. He can never quite tell and it worries him a bit sometimes. Maybe it's an age thing. "I suppose that depends on who's writing this RPF. Why? Would you like that?"
She smirks and grabs his arse, pulling him back inside, "Only if I get to mow him down afterwards."
"Fuck, yes." And with that, a hard and fast fuck becomes the only option left open to him as a picture of her standing in the desert in cut off jeans fills his head, the strap of her rifle nuzzling her cleavage as she lets it fall to her hip, a splattering of red on her shirt and a glint of pure bloodlust in her eyes. "Of course you do."
"Oh, good...OHHH," she hisses, "So...OHGOD!!!...what time is she...OHFUCKYES!!...coming?"
He glances up at the clock on the nightstand and grunts, "Right... After... You are."
"OHHHHHH," Sophia comes, moaning and biting her lip. She knows full well she'll pull him along about two seconds from now, so she grabs his face in her hands and kisses him hard, biting his tongue in triumph when his two seconds are up.
David lets out a muffled cry as he comes inside her, his gaze falling on the gun on the nightstand as he collapses into a heap. She strokes his hair and kisses the top of his head. She realises he's staring at the gun and she smiles a little. The doorbell rings and she gives him another slap on the arse, "You'd better answer that, Clyde."
David jumps to his feet and grabs his bathrobe, putting it on and slipping the gun into a pocket. He turns to look back at Sophia, lying naked on the bed. She's slightly flushed and is licking her lips like she's just tasted something entirely new. He winks at her, "Just a fright, that's all. Teach her a lesson."
"You do that, baby," she mumbles after him as he leaves the room. She's only just putting the last of the scattered toys back in the bag when she hears the gun go off. It's louder than she imagined it would be. She opens the drawer of the nightstand and throws their passports into the bag. Putting on her bathrobe, she joins David in the front room, casually setting the bag down on the sofa before surveying the scene.
It's messy, it's really messy. There's blood everywhere. David is standing over the lifeless body of the girl who is surely no older than 16. Sophia smiles as she grabs him by his bathrobe, kissing him long and hard. "Accident, was it?"
"Oh, yes. I didn't know it was loaded." He kisses her back, "I honestly had no idea, your honour." He smiles as she licks her thumb and cleans a drop of blood off his cheek.
"Not a judge in the land would convict you," Sophia's pretty sure of this, what with him pulling that puppy dog face that is, now that she thinks about it, the weirdest combination of doe-eyed innocence and unadulterated filth she's ever seen scrambling for dominance in one single facial expression, "unless he was 100% heterosexual."
David is still trying the face on for size. "I have yet to meet a man who is 100% heterosexual." He momentarily stares into the distance, briefly assessing all the men he's ever met just to be sure of the accuracy of this statement, before turning to look at her again and giving her a saucy wink.
She pushes herself against him and isn't in the least bit surprised to feel a fresh erection pushing into her thigh. "Put your clothes on, you sick fuck." She kisses him again, softly this time, as she drags him back into the bedroom. "It's time to go to Vegas." She quickly slips on a sundress. She briefly considers putting on knickers, but decides she's probably not the knicker type. She watches David as he finishes putting on his jeans and a t-shirt and lovingly runs her fingers through his hair, content in the knowledge that he has just confirmed her suspicion that undergarments are for losers in the world of Real Person Fiction. They close the door to the bedroom and head for the front door, stepping over the body without even a glance. "So, do you reckon it has many chapters, this RPF?"
David double locks the front door behind them. He slings the bag over his shoulder and takes her hand in his as they make their way outside. "I fucking well hope not."
FIN
And that is why people should neither read, nor write Real Person Fiction. It's just wrong. SEE? I told you so. WRONG.
ETA: I'll make it even worse by admitting that this whole thing started because I figured if someone was going to write RPF, they could at least do the decent thing and put in a line about Tennant/Sladen. How did that innocent thought evolve into this monstrosity? I ask you. Really.
ETA AGAIN: Compounding the making it worseness, reading between the lines you get an extra special hint of my slight feeling of contempt for women who were born in the 1980's, whom I dislike purely on the basis that I am a bitter and twisted old hag. I lose.
ETA YET AGAIN because I feel it's important: I refer the right honourable reader back to my previous post just to clear up any confusion about my moral standpoint on these matters.
It is entitled: RPF: the case against and it is RPF. It is David/Sophia RPF. With a gun. There is sex in it, and cold-blooded murder. Just so you know. DON'T READ IT. Also, it is for grown-ups only, due to sex and killing and immensely gratuitous use of the f-word.
"OK, can we back up for a second and pretend that you're the internet geek and I'm just someone who occasionally books a flight with EasyJet and regularly forgets her own email address?" Sophia doesn't do sarcasm very often and she decides to ignore the fact that she's made herself come off slightly worse in the attempt as she lathers up her hair, staring at David shaving in front of the sink wearing a pair of Dangermouse boxer shorts. She leans back in the bath again, poking her toes out of the water and wriggling them in what she believes to be a sexy manner. "What the fuck is RPF?"
David turns around with a face full of foam. "Real Person Fiction. It's a kind of fanfic." He scans her face for any sign that she is following his train of thought, but finds none. "You know what fanfiction is, right?"
"I'm not a fucking moron, David. Fanfiction, yeah. When internet nerds write stories about the Doctor shagging Rose on the TARDIS console, that sort of thing."
"That's a bit of a harsh generalisation, Sophia, but yes." David smiles at her in that slightly patronising way he tends to do sometimes when talking geek at her, "Well," he continues, "RPF is like that, only it features real live people."
Sophia looks at him, slightly shocked. "What, like this?"
David blinks, "Like what?"
She gestures vaguely around the room, mumbling "bath, sink, Dangermouse, EasyJet," she catches his eye and decides to cut her losses while she can. She sighs, "Like you and me, you mean?"
"It wouldn't usually involve you and me specifically, no." He pauses in that way he does when he thinks she needs some time to take in what he's saying as he turns back towards the mirror and finishes lathering up his face. "You see, our sexual relationship is canon, and therefore doesn't really require the intervention of fanfic to make it any more real. Writing about you and me would just amount to making up a story about the nature of our private and/or sex life, and not even the most batshit fan would go there, because it's just kind of sick, if you follow me."
"Yes, I follow you, but thanks for your concern for my tiny little female brain," she scowls at him behind his back, "and I do wish you'd stop using words like canon and batshit, it really puts me off. I like to pretend that you're a perfectly normal person. It makes me feel better about myself, generally, and my attraction to you, specifically."
David continues as though she hasn't actually spoken at all, "So RPF has a tendency to focus on relationships that are more on the wishful thinking end of the spectrum, like, say, me fucking Liz Sladen."
Sophia blinks for a second. "But you have fucked Liz Sladen, surely?"
He pauses, staring wistfully into space, "Yes," he sighs happily, "yes, I have."
His reverie is broken by a quick snap of Sophia's fingers, "David!"
He blinks, "Sorry. The point is, not a lot of people know that, so they make up stories about it, and post them on the internet. And that is what we call RPF."
Sophia watches him as he continues shaving. He's taking that tone with her again, like he did that time when she foolishly admitted the only song she remembered from the 80's was Kylie and Jason's Especially for You, and she's keen to change the subject back to the original question. "OK, so, back to this girl you've been talking to on AIM, then. Who is she, and why have you invited her round to the flat?"
"Well," says David, intermittently poking his tongue into his cheek as men tend to do when trying to impress a woman with their shaving skills as if it's some sort of dark art like voodoo or using an angle grinder, "she wrote some. Some RPF. Someone alerted me to it a week or so ago." He rinses his razor and starts lathering up again. "I didn't read all of it, it was tediously long, as these things tend to be, but it seemed to involve me fucking Billie behind your back."
Sophia sits up suddenly, spitting bubbles into the bath. "Piper? That's just gross."
"My point exactly. Anyway, somewhere along the line in chapter God knows what of God knows how many, you get hit by a car."
"I fucking what?"
"You get hit. By a car. And end up in hospital. And then you need an operation and I kind of stopped reading after that because the grammar was getting to me. But that's the general gist of it. And she presented this chapter like it was some sort of laughfest, like a 'ha ha, Sophia gets hit by a fucking car, hooray!!' kind of thing, and so I decided to invite her round, have a bit of a chat." David runs the tap and rinses his face. He turns to look at her, drying his face with a towel, and walks off into the bedroom.
She can hear him rummaging around and dunks her head under the water, rinsing her hair before getting out and following him, not even bothering to grab a towel. "What are you doing?"
David is on his hands and knees, looking under his side of the bed. For reasons best left to the undoubtedly active imagination of the average RPF connoisseur, she loves it when he's on all fours and she momentarily forgets what they were talking about as she stares at him. He looks at her, she's naked and dripping onto the carpet, a small nest of bubbles still clinging to her left shoulder. "Where's our toy bag?" he asks matter-of-factly, one hand feeling its way around underneath the bed and finding absolutely nothing.
Sophia smirks, "It's on my side, remember?" She gives his arse one last admiring glance as he gets up and walks to the other side, retrieving the bag and dropping it unceremoniously onto the bed. "Got plans?" she asks, lying down on top of the covers next to the bag, striking a pose that experience has taught her he finds seductive.
David starts emptying out the bag with no real care or attention, flinging the contents this way and that. "I always have plans." He looks up and winks at her before turning his attention back to the bag.
The realisation begins to dawn on her that he's not got the bag out for her benefit and she pouts a little, disturbed by his lack of interest as he flings a pair of wrist cuffs across the room. Then suddenly something hits her in the eye. "OI!" She looks down to see what it is, "you hit me with a flogger!"
David looks up, puzzled, "That's what it's for, isn't it?"
"No, just now, in the face. You hit me with it." She holds it up by the offending handle, running her fingers through the tresses like she's straightening a child's unruly hair. "Nice one, too. Bastard."
"Oh. I'm sorry,” he says, a very dirty look beginning to spread across his features, "I'll make it up to you." His right hand is still in the bag, hidden from view, and he smirks as he pulls it out.
He's holding a gun.
Sophia shifts on the bed as she watches him caress it with his other hand like it's just another dildo. He smirks at her and hands it over. "It's a Walther PPK. That's James Bond's gun, did you know that?"
She takes the gun from his hands hesistantly, "No, David, I did not know that. And I've been meaning to ask you why there's a gun in our toy bag ever since I found it the other day." She handles the gun, surprised at its pleasing texture and temperature, "Why, David, is there a gun in our toy bag?"
He looks at her, licking his lips as she fondles the Walther before he answers, "It's as good a place as any to keep a gun."
"Right," she can't really argue with that logic and decides to leave it, "and what, exactly, are you planning on doing with James Bond's gun, if you don't mind my asking?"
He takes the gun back and twirls it in his hand like the star of a cheesy western would, were it the sort of gun that would be used in a cheesy western, which it isn't, being as it is, a Walther PPK, which is James Bond's gun. "I just want to give her a fright, that's all. Nothing major." He puts it down on the nightstand and turns his attention back to Sophia, only just noticing that she hasn't actually dried herself off. He shakes his head disapprovingly and looks her up and down. "You're all wet."
"You know me so well." She licks her lips as she says it, knowing it's all the invitation he needs. And sure enough, the Dangermouse boxers swiftly end up amongst the toys at the end of the bed as he climbs on top of her, quickly licking the last of the bubbles off her shoulder before plunging into her hard and fast and deep.
"Ohhh fuck." Sophia wraps her legs around his hips and looks at him. "You know, David…oh yes…I'm glad people don't…ah…write RPF about us." She pauses and smacks his arse, hard. "Fuck. Me. Harder."
"Anything you say," he says, and does just that. "Why are you…OH…glad about that, then?"
"Because it would…ah God!…probably involve lots of vague…ah!…innuendo and casually…Oooh…hinted at kinks…fuckyes…without ever going deeper! into anything of any…OH!…substance and it certainly...ohGodyes...wouldn't involve a...FUCK!...gun of any kind."
David stops mid-thrust, "Really?", he plunges into her again and stays there, grinding his hips, staring over her shoulder, deep in thought, "I would have thought it would involve a gun. Maybe we'd end up going on a killing spree in the Nevada desert, just you and me, like Juliette Lewis and Woody Harrelson, only..." he pauses, looking rather pleased with himself, "...attractive."
She squirms beneath him, grinding back and smiling at the thought. "You think so?"
He circles his pelvis against her clit, grinning, "Yeah, you know, maybe the first one would be an accident but then...ohhhh," he moans, feeling her beginning to clench around his cock, "...then we'd get a taste for it. For blood. And death. And carnage. And we'd get ourselves a semi-automatic and shoot our way through the Southwestern United States, killing Yanks left right and centre, only pausing every once in a while to fuck each other into a hot and sweaty mess in the blazing Arizona sun."
Sophia writhes and starts to pant, teetering on the edge but not willing to end the conversation just yet. "Could we end up in Vegas and be married by Elvis?"
He suddenly pulls out of her, studying her face to see if she's joking. He can never quite tell and it worries him a bit sometimes. Maybe it's an age thing. "I suppose that depends on who's writing this RPF. Why? Would you like that?"
She smirks and grabs his arse, pulling him back inside, "Only if I get to mow him down afterwards."
"Fuck, yes." And with that, a hard and fast fuck becomes the only option left open to him as a picture of her standing in the desert in cut off jeans fills his head, the strap of her rifle nuzzling her cleavage as she lets it fall to her hip, a splattering of red on her shirt and a glint of pure bloodlust in her eyes. "Of course you do."
"Oh, good...OHHH," she hisses, "So...OHGOD!!!...what time is she...OHFUCKYES!!...coming?"
He glances up at the clock on the nightstand and grunts, "Right... After... You are."
"OHHHHHH," Sophia comes, moaning and biting her lip. She knows full well she'll pull him along about two seconds from now, so she grabs his face in her hands and kisses him hard, biting his tongue in triumph when his two seconds are up.
David lets out a muffled cry as he comes inside her, his gaze falling on the gun on the nightstand as he collapses into a heap. She strokes his hair and kisses the top of his head. She realises he's staring at the gun and she smiles a little. The doorbell rings and she gives him another slap on the arse, "You'd better answer that, Clyde."
David jumps to his feet and grabs his bathrobe, putting it on and slipping the gun into a pocket. He turns to look back at Sophia, lying naked on the bed. She's slightly flushed and is licking her lips like she's just tasted something entirely new. He winks at her, "Just a fright, that's all. Teach her a lesson."
"You do that, baby," she mumbles after him as he leaves the room. She's only just putting the last of the scattered toys back in the bag when she hears the gun go off. It's louder than she imagined it would be. She opens the drawer of the nightstand and throws their passports into the bag. Putting on her bathrobe, she joins David in the front room, casually setting the bag down on the sofa before surveying the scene.
It's messy, it's really messy. There's blood everywhere. David is standing over the lifeless body of the girl who is surely no older than 16. Sophia smiles as she grabs him by his bathrobe, kissing him long and hard. "Accident, was it?"
"Oh, yes. I didn't know it was loaded." He kisses her back, "I honestly had no idea, your honour." He smiles as she licks her thumb and cleans a drop of blood off his cheek.
"Not a judge in the land would convict you," Sophia's pretty sure of this, what with him pulling that puppy dog face that is, now that she thinks about it, the weirdest combination of doe-eyed innocence and unadulterated filth she's ever seen scrambling for dominance in one single facial expression, "unless he was 100% heterosexual."
David is still trying the face on for size. "I have yet to meet a man who is 100% heterosexual." He momentarily stares into the distance, briefly assessing all the men he's ever met just to be sure of the accuracy of this statement, before turning to look at her again and giving her a saucy wink.
She pushes herself against him and isn't in the least bit surprised to feel a fresh erection pushing into her thigh. "Put your clothes on, you sick fuck." She kisses him again, softly this time, as she drags him back into the bedroom. "It's time to go to Vegas." She quickly slips on a sundress. She briefly considers putting on knickers, but decides she's probably not the knicker type. She watches David as he finishes putting on his jeans and a t-shirt and lovingly runs her fingers through his hair, content in the knowledge that he has just confirmed her suspicion that undergarments are for losers in the world of Real Person Fiction. They close the door to the bedroom and head for the front door, stepping over the body without even a glance. "So, do you reckon it has many chapters, this RPF?"
David double locks the front door behind them. He slings the bag over his shoulder and takes her hand in his as they make their way outside. "I fucking well hope not."
FIN
And that is why people should neither read, nor write Real Person Fiction. It's just wrong. SEE? I told you so. WRONG.
ETA: I'll make it even worse by admitting that this whole thing started because I figured if someone was going to write RPF, they could at least do the decent thing and put in a line about Tennant/Sladen. How did that innocent thought evolve into this monstrosity? I ask you. Really.
ETA AGAIN: Compounding the making it worseness, reading between the lines you get an extra special hint of my slight feeling of contempt for women who were born in the 1980's, whom I dislike purely on the basis that I am a bitter and twisted old hag. I lose.
ETA YET AGAIN because I feel it's important: I refer the right honourable reader back to my previous post just to clear up any confusion about my moral standpoint on these matters.
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(I was born in 1979 and this matters more in my head than it should.)
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*Googles*
I tell a lie. there was a plane crash. Um.
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(Anonymous) 2006-11-16 03:11 pm (UTC)(link)I grew up in the Midwest, in a house that had been the farmhouse for the land that was sold to build the surrounding suburb. Our house came with all the leftover land in the middle of the block. In 1974 we happened to grow LOTS and LOTS of onions, so after they dried, we braided the tops to make attractive strands. As far as I can remember, that was the only year we bothered. And that's what we were doing the evening that Nixon threw in the towel. Very surreal.
I was also nursing a newborn the evening Bush I started Gulf War I. My life is all about the weird juxtaposition.
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*feels vaguely guilty for being born in the 1980s*no subject
Away with you, you're far too young to be perusing my LiveJournal.
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I am officially allowed to vote, drink, drive, and buy porn (but preferably not all at once). I think I should be allowed here.
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I tell a lie, I only voted, drank and drove. I was voting for all porn being free. It was a matter of principle. (For the record, it was a landslide victory and thus the internet as we know it was born)
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(If I went LALALA NOT RPF the bit where they're thinking of starting a Bonnie and Clyde life of crime and sex was really freaking fantastic and I want to read that with non-real people now, pls).
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I can't make it be about non-real people now, it is inherently RPF-ish in its very soul. Which means you shouldn't have read it in the first place, you sick fuck.
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Nobody has shot me inna fayce, and therefore I have deflocked it. More people should be reading and writing RPF with guns in. This has been a valuable learning experience for me.
Though I think it should have been a bigger gun.
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So trues, so accurate, so insightful. *dreamy sigh*
"You know, David…oh yes…I'm glad people don't…ah…write RPF about us." She pauses and smacks his arse, hard. "Fuck. Me. Harder."
This is very True and says so much about the world in which we live.
what time is she...OHFUCKYES!!...coming?"
He glances up at the clock on the nightstand and grunts, "Right... After... You are."
That was just cheap though.
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Thank you for your insights as always. It means a lot to me.
(I wasn't going to put that line in. But then I did, because I'm a cheap ho at heart.)
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You sick fuck.
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I am now resisting going somewhere with that brainwave and trying my darndest to just let the goddamn thing lie.
And that is why I never write anything, because these things start creeping into my brain and make me lie awake at night, I have a tendency to edit things for about six months until they've turned into something else entirely. I fail so bad.
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It's bad for you.
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This is just...really...honest to god, there are no words to describe the awesomeness of this. You RPF's the RPFers - in perfect voice!
*loves you*
Although, I'm somewhat ashamed to admit, I'd read more adventures of Bonnie Miles and Clyde Tennant. Because, dude..guns are hot.
BWAH!
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Apart from the one about the income tax and Richard and Judy.
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And I was born in the 1950s, and I STILL don't remember anything written in teh 1980s, but it's because of senility so HAH.
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It's a very narrow margin of people who can name all members of Duran Duran. (The good lineup, obviously)
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STOP harassing me, all of you! There is no next chapter!
*looks shifty*
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I hope you're happy.
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But this fic, funny, sarcastic, and definitely sends the message home. Excellent job. Great voices. You have given me hope yet that David really is with Sophia and isn't seeing Billie on the side.
Metafictional RPF is pretty nifty.
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