2nd badfic challenge by etcetera-cat
Title: From Out of an Oyster
Prompt: Fraser is like… totally in love with Ray (the blond one), but Ray is all like… I <3 BOOBS! And Fraser is totally sad and shit until he decides to use his FREAKY MOUNTIE POWERS for evil and totally converts Ray by telling him totally made up Inuit stories about prostate glands. And then Fraser gets to bone Ray like… A LOT. And Fraser totally has to buy fake cocks and shit just to keep up with Ray’s totally huge ASS-SEX APPETITE!
Prompt Written by: maryavatar
Pairing, length:eventual F/K, 1,924 words
Ratings, warnings, etc:PG. I’ve come to the conclusion this past week that I have a total inability to deliberately write bad!fic (unintentional, I’m keeping my silence on) so this is not so much that as really-stupid-crack!fic. Crossed over with Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next books so, y’know, a bit on the demented side. Also, Dief can talk.
Author’s Notes: In short: for Reasons of Exploding Dictionaries, Fraser, Ray K and Dief have ended up in the BookWorld, where they find themselves helping JurisFiction investigate the murder of Cock Robin. The investigation leads them to the erotica/racy novel book construction workshops in the Well of Lost Plots, where an, ahem, variation on the prompt happens. The actual whole story outline (and you would not believe how much I now want to write this whole thing) can be found HERE.
“I’m serious,” Thursday gestured around at the corridor that more-resembled the cluttered thoroughfare of a medieval city. “The Well is a dangerous place at the best of times, and, well, this isn’t exactly the best of times.”
Given that Thursday concluded her lecture by having to take a half-step backwards to allow a herd of fauns screaming for Bacchus to thunder past, Fraser got her point almost immediately. He only wished that Ray would pay more attention.
“Are we looking for anyone in particular?” Fraser asked.
Thursday essayed a one-shouldered shrug. “We know that Robin has associates in Racy Novel, we just don’t know their names. Unfortunately, this particular area of the Well is a hotbed of pseudonyms, amongst other things.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Fraser could see Ray looking the direction of a cluster of young ladies in milk-maid costumes that had never been near a cow, and didn’t leave much to the imagination. Heroically, Fraser ignored the stab of frustration and kept his lips closed around the exasperated sigh he wanted to vent.
“’Scuse me, Ms. Next?” A black and white collie was shifting impatiently from foot to foot next to them.
“Yes, Shadow?”
“It’s Falstaff, mum,” Shadow said, his voice a strange mixture of plumy English and the kind of accent a certain class of post-war children’s authors imagined was countrified. “He’s gone and got into a dirty loop with a VP generic.”
“A dirty loop with a VP?” Ray looked interested, in spite of himself.
“Vanity Publishing. Although it’s becoming more of a catch-all term these days,” Thursday sighed. “A dirty loop is properly known as an infinite innuendo regression, they’re a hazard around here. Well, I’d better deal with Falstaff now. If he’s left too long, it’ll be near-impossible to get him out of it, and his bawdy rating is already a matter of contention with the C of G.”
Fraser and Ray were left alone with each other, the sounds of hundreds of books being constructed swirling around them. Fraser couldn’t help but notice how Ray’s eyes flickered this way and that, tracking the people walking past them and he again resisted the urge to say something. Something stupid and petulant like: ‘I’m right here’ or ‘why aren’t you looking at me?’
“Maybe we should-” suddenly, a shot rang out, interrupting Fraser and sending both him and Ray sideways, into the cover provided by a stack of wooden crates. “Ray, you’re not armed,” he reminded him as Ray groped for his gun.
“Dammit, this trip sucks. Fine, you go around to the left, I’ll take right.”
Fraser barely had time to mumble agreement before Ray was off, sliding his way around the corner of the boxes and vanishing. Fraser shook his head and, rather more carefully assessed the surroundings before moving down the side of the building. He was surprised to note that none of the natives of the Well had reacted to the gunshot, and took the time to question a few of the more clothed ones. Gunshots, it turned out, were nothing out of the order around the workshops, particularly not during the currently upswing in the popularity of books with a thriller/spy element.
Pushing open the door to the warehouse caused a swirl of thick, musky perfume to envelop Fraser as he stepped inside. It was all the more cloying for being one of the few scents that they had encountered since entering the BookWorld, and it made Fraser sneeze. As he stepped further into the dimly lit warehouse, towards a circle of bright light in the middle-distance, behind a maze of crates, filled to overflowing with theatrical props. Fraser cautiously looked in one of the open boxes as he passed, then wished he hadn’t as the contents proved to be anatomically correct and in a variety of neon colours.
Aware of sound ahead, Fraser stepped forwards quickly. The first thing he saw were two men, both dressed in dusty looking canvas trousers and linen shirts, one grey-haired, one black-haired. The grey-haired one was speaking.
“It’s all very well having highly described generics, but the difference between the character and background narrative volumes are the very devil to keep balanced in the ITRDs.” The man patted the side of what appeared to be an elaborate gramophone, made entirely of mahogany and brass. “And I’m sure none of this was in the script. His costume’s not even right, for one, and for another, he looks like no Aladdin I’ve ever seen.”
“Excuse me?” Fraser tried and was startled backwards a step when both men whirled around.
“No! No, no, no!” The younger one shouted and gestured wildly with the clapperboard he was holding. “’Poles Point North’ is Vanity Press and it’s three doors over, down the alley.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Hold on, Ted.” The older man was squinting at Fraser in a disconcerting fashion. “He’s no VP generic.”
“Ah.” Fraser rubbed at his eyebrow with one thumb. “I’m not a generic. I’m from the real world and-Ray?”
The brightly coloured confusion of fabric behind the men had suddenly made sense to Fraser. It was a flat bed, set among a profusion of draped fabric that resembled an exotic tent only by indirect means, and it was very much occupied. By Ray and at least four very well endowed ladies. The squirming was making it hard to accurately count.
“Fraser!” Ray sounded almost drunk, a large grin plastered across his face as he sprawled across the bed. “Fraser, my friend, this is more like how an acid trip should go, if you have to take one.”
“Oh, really, Ray.”
“Fraaaaser, it’s all in good fun. This is Yasmin, she’s my friend.” Ray flung an arm around the shoulders of a dark-haired woman, not incidentally almost nose-diving into her ample cleavage. Yasmin giggled, hugged Ray back and directed a smouldering look at Fraser.
As she did, Fraser felt a sensation not unlike the air was made of syrup, rolling over him in a wave, and he suddenly realised that what was happening was exactly what Thursday had warned them against. The powerful, emotion-laden raw story energy had caught hold of Ray and was trying to make him fit in with his surroundings.
“Definitely not in the plot,” the grey-haired man said in a disapproving voice. “TGC are going to be upset about this.”
The other man threw his clapperboard on the floor in disgust and stalked off, muttering about finding a JurisFiction agent to sort things out.
“Ray.” Fraser edged closer to the bed and debated grabbing hold of Ray to pull him of it, but was unable to distinguish a free portion of body that was not either naked, jiggling, or some embarrassing combination of the two.
“Just have to let them work it out,” the old man advised. “Seen it many a-time down here: raw racy novel and erotica story energy is powerful stuff, goes to people’s heads if they’re not used to it.” He shook his head, as if to indicate the folly of youth.
Fraser frowned, unwilling to simply sit there and watch while Ray…well. Perhaps the story power could be convinced to go in a different direction.
“Ray, did I ever tell you the story about the seal and the pearl?”
“Mmph,” said Ray.
Fraser averted his eyes and stared fixedly at one of the drapes. “Well, Ray. Seal was a creature who lived in the far north sea, in the place where the ice floats for all of the year apart from the short summer. He was sleek of fur, and round of head, and no creature was his match when it came to chasing silver fish along the twisty-turny waters of the coast.
“One day, seal was swimming through a bed of seaweed when he spied something glittering down on the sea bed-”
Possibly-Yasmin giggled at the word ‘bed’ and Fraser coughed.
“It was a pearl, white and glowing and perfect,” he continued in a louder tone of voice. “Seal knew that he would never find anything as perfect again, and he was determined that no other creature should steal it away from him, so Seal ate the pearl in a single gulp.
“Now, it was several days later, while laying on a rock in the fitful sunshine that Seal realised that he could feel the pearl inside him. This confused Seal, and he spent the rest of the day concentrating on the feeling in his lower belly. It was warm, somehow, and filling, and Seal had never felt anything like it before. He wondered how he had lived his life without the feeling of his pearl and-”
“Fraser, you are telling a story about a seal with a pearl up its ass.”
Fraser choked and tried to think of a reply, aware of the syrup-sensation of the raw story flowing around him, and squinted a glance at Ray, who was now sitting up and looking amused. “I…don’t know what you mean.”
“Simple Fraser: when you say ‘pearl’, everyone in this room hears ‘prostate’. Man, we really need to work on your dirty talk.”
Fraser felt himself flushing a painful red as Ray and his female friends all dissolved into laughter. He had absolutely no idea on what do to next, when-
Suddenly, a doorbell rang, and one side of the tent billowed open, revealing an annoyed looking Thursday Next and a scandalised looking Diefenbaker. Slightly behind them, holding open the tent, was an apologetic looking Shadow, and behind him were a collection of serious looking men in yellow hazard suits, led by the dark-haired clapperboard man.
“Sorry,” the collie mumbled, around a mouthful of fabric. “Didn’t mean to knock that plot device over. Made for a good entrance, though.”
“All right,” Thursday said. “Separate and inoculate them. The last thing we need is an outbreak of erotica-themed fable telling.”
Fraser found himself herded onto a stool, watching as Ray was disentangled from his friends, each of them being put into the possession of a pair of yellow-clad agents. He blinked slowly at Thursday as she walked over to him. His head felt very woolly.
“Honestly, Boss,” a disgusted voice said from the vicinity of his knees. Fraser looked down and found Dief glaring at him.
“Hello, Dief.”
“Have you no self-control?” Dief wrinkled his nose. “When I suggested that you get over yourself, this wasn’t what I had in mind! And it certainly didn’t involve stories about pearls!”
“Thank you, Diefenbaker,” Thursday said. “It’s not entirely Benton’s fault, and there really isn’t much use talking to him until the story’s out of his system. Why don’t you see if you can help Shadow keep Falstaff away from anything approaching innuendo?”
The half-wolf snorted loudly, gave Fraser a look that eloquently detailed all the ways in which he. Diefenbaker, considered humans to be stupid, and stalked off.
Fraser watched in interest as one of the yellow-suited men urged him out of his serge and prepared his arm for an injection of a dull grey liquid.
“What’s that?”
Thursday looked up from her mobile footnoterphone and used it to gesture at the syringe. “It’s one of the most boring substances known to exist, and it’s made from the distilled minutes of local council committee meetings. Just the cure for an overdose of erotica.”
“Oh.” Fraser blinked. His arm was tingling where he’d been injected, and he didn’t feel well.
The last thing he heard was Thursday saying: “Greying out is a perfectly normal reaction to the blasted stuff.”
Prompt: Fraser is like… totally in love with Ray (the blond one), but Ray is all like… I <3 BOOBS! And Fraser is totally sad and shit until he decides to use his FREAKY MOUNTIE POWERS for evil and totally converts Ray by telling him totally made up Inuit stories about prostate glands. And then Fraser gets to bone Ray like… A LOT. And Fraser totally has to buy fake cocks and shit just to keep up with Ray’s totally huge ASS-SEX APPETITE!
Prompt Written by: maryavatar
Pairing, length:eventual F/K, 1,924 words
Ratings, warnings, etc:PG. I’ve come to the conclusion this past week that I have a total inability to deliberately write bad!fic (unintentional, I’m keeping my silence on) so this is not so much that as really-stupid-crack!fic. Crossed over with Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next books so, y’know, a bit on the demented side. Also, Dief can talk.
Author’s Notes: In short: for Reasons of Exploding Dictionaries, Fraser, Ray K and Dief have ended up in the BookWorld, where they find themselves helping JurisFiction investigate the murder of Cock Robin. The investigation leads them to the erotica/racy novel book construction workshops in the Well of Lost Plots, where an, ahem, variation on the prompt happens. The actual whole story outline (and you would not believe how much I now want to write this whole thing) can be found HERE.
“I’m serious,” Thursday gestured around at the corridor that more-resembled the cluttered thoroughfare of a medieval city. “The Well is a dangerous place at the best of times, and, well, this isn’t exactly the best of times.”
Given that Thursday concluded her lecture by having to take a half-step backwards to allow a herd of fauns screaming for Bacchus to thunder past, Fraser got her point almost immediately. He only wished that Ray would pay more attention.
“Are we looking for anyone in particular?” Fraser asked.
Thursday essayed a one-shouldered shrug. “We know that Robin has associates in Racy Novel, we just don’t know their names. Unfortunately, this particular area of the Well is a hotbed of pseudonyms, amongst other things.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Fraser could see Ray looking the direction of a cluster of young ladies in milk-maid costumes that had never been near a cow, and didn’t leave much to the imagination. Heroically, Fraser ignored the stab of frustration and kept his lips closed around the exasperated sigh he wanted to vent.
“’Scuse me, Ms. Next?” A black and white collie was shifting impatiently from foot to foot next to them.
“Yes, Shadow?”
“It’s Falstaff, mum,” Shadow said, his voice a strange mixture of plumy English and the kind of accent a certain class of post-war children’s authors imagined was countrified. “He’s gone and got into a dirty loop with a VP generic.”
“A dirty loop with a VP?” Ray looked interested, in spite of himself.
“Vanity Publishing. Although it’s becoming more of a catch-all term these days,” Thursday sighed. “A dirty loop is properly known as an infinite innuendo regression, they’re a hazard around here. Well, I’d better deal with Falstaff now. If he’s left too long, it’ll be near-impossible to get him out of it, and his bawdy rating is already a matter of contention with the C of G.”
Fraser and Ray were left alone with each other, the sounds of hundreds of books being constructed swirling around them. Fraser couldn’t help but notice how Ray’s eyes flickered this way and that, tracking the people walking past them and he again resisted the urge to say something. Something stupid and petulant like: ‘I’m right here’ or ‘why aren’t you looking at me?’
“Maybe we should-” suddenly, a shot rang out, interrupting Fraser and sending both him and Ray sideways, into the cover provided by a stack of wooden crates. “Ray, you’re not armed,” he reminded him as Ray groped for his gun.
“Dammit, this trip sucks. Fine, you go around to the left, I’ll take right.”
Fraser barely had time to mumble agreement before Ray was off, sliding his way around the corner of the boxes and vanishing. Fraser shook his head and, rather more carefully assessed the surroundings before moving down the side of the building. He was surprised to note that none of the natives of the Well had reacted to the gunshot, and took the time to question a few of the more clothed ones. Gunshots, it turned out, were nothing out of the order around the workshops, particularly not during the currently upswing in the popularity of books with a thriller/spy element.
Pushing open the door to the warehouse caused a swirl of thick, musky perfume to envelop Fraser as he stepped inside. It was all the more cloying for being one of the few scents that they had encountered since entering the BookWorld, and it made Fraser sneeze. As he stepped further into the dimly lit warehouse, towards a circle of bright light in the middle-distance, behind a maze of crates, filled to overflowing with theatrical props. Fraser cautiously looked in one of the open boxes as he passed, then wished he hadn’t as the contents proved to be anatomically correct and in a variety of neon colours.
Aware of sound ahead, Fraser stepped forwards quickly. The first thing he saw were two men, both dressed in dusty looking canvas trousers and linen shirts, one grey-haired, one black-haired. The grey-haired one was speaking.
“It’s all very well having highly described generics, but the difference between the character and background narrative volumes are the very devil to keep balanced in the ITRDs.” The man patted the side of what appeared to be an elaborate gramophone, made entirely of mahogany and brass. “And I’m sure none of this was in the script. His costume’s not even right, for one, and for another, he looks like no Aladdin I’ve ever seen.”
“Excuse me?” Fraser tried and was startled backwards a step when both men whirled around.
“No! No, no, no!” The younger one shouted and gestured wildly with the clapperboard he was holding. “’Poles Point North’ is Vanity Press and it’s three doors over, down the alley.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Hold on, Ted.” The older man was squinting at Fraser in a disconcerting fashion. “He’s no VP generic.”
“Ah.” Fraser rubbed at his eyebrow with one thumb. “I’m not a generic. I’m from the real world and-Ray?”
The brightly coloured confusion of fabric behind the men had suddenly made sense to Fraser. It was a flat bed, set among a profusion of draped fabric that resembled an exotic tent only by indirect means, and it was very much occupied. By Ray and at least four very well endowed ladies. The squirming was making it hard to accurately count.
“Fraser!” Ray sounded almost drunk, a large grin plastered across his face as he sprawled across the bed. “Fraser, my friend, this is more like how an acid trip should go, if you have to take one.”
“Oh, really, Ray.”
“Fraaaaser, it’s all in good fun. This is Yasmin, she’s my friend.” Ray flung an arm around the shoulders of a dark-haired woman, not incidentally almost nose-diving into her ample cleavage. Yasmin giggled, hugged Ray back and directed a smouldering look at Fraser.
As she did, Fraser felt a sensation not unlike the air was made of syrup, rolling over him in a wave, and he suddenly realised that what was happening was exactly what Thursday had warned them against. The powerful, emotion-laden raw story energy had caught hold of Ray and was trying to make him fit in with his surroundings.
“Definitely not in the plot,” the grey-haired man said in a disapproving voice. “TGC are going to be upset about this.”
The other man threw his clapperboard on the floor in disgust and stalked off, muttering about finding a JurisFiction agent to sort things out.
“Ray.” Fraser edged closer to the bed and debated grabbing hold of Ray to pull him of it, but was unable to distinguish a free portion of body that was not either naked, jiggling, or some embarrassing combination of the two.
“Just have to let them work it out,” the old man advised. “Seen it many a-time down here: raw racy novel and erotica story energy is powerful stuff, goes to people’s heads if they’re not used to it.” He shook his head, as if to indicate the folly of youth.
Fraser frowned, unwilling to simply sit there and watch while Ray…well. Perhaps the story power could be convinced to go in a different direction.
“Ray, did I ever tell you the story about the seal and the pearl?”
“Mmph,” said Ray.
Fraser averted his eyes and stared fixedly at one of the drapes. “Well, Ray. Seal was a creature who lived in the far north sea, in the place where the ice floats for all of the year apart from the short summer. He was sleek of fur, and round of head, and no creature was his match when it came to chasing silver fish along the twisty-turny waters of the coast.
“One day, seal was swimming through a bed of seaweed when he spied something glittering down on the sea bed-”
Possibly-Yasmin giggled at the word ‘bed’ and Fraser coughed.
“It was a pearl, white and glowing and perfect,” he continued in a louder tone of voice. “Seal knew that he would never find anything as perfect again, and he was determined that no other creature should steal it away from him, so Seal ate the pearl in a single gulp.
“Now, it was several days later, while laying on a rock in the fitful sunshine that Seal realised that he could feel the pearl inside him. This confused Seal, and he spent the rest of the day concentrating on the feeling in his lower belly. It was warm, somehow, and filling, and Seal had never felt anything like it before. He wondered how he had lived his life without the feeling of his pearl and-”
“Fraser, you are telling a story about a seal with a pearl up its ass.”
Fraser choked and tried to think of a reply, aware of the syrup-sensation of the raw story flowing around him, and squinted a glance at Ray, who was now sitting up and looking amused. “I…don’t know what you mean.”
“Simple Fraser: when you say ‘pearl’, everyone in this room hears ‘prostate’. Man, we really need to work on your dirty talk.”
Fraser felt himself flushing a painful red as Ray and his female friends all dissolved into laughter. He had absolutely no idea on what do to next, when-
Suddenly, a doorbell rang, and one side of the tent billowed open, revealing an annoyed looking Thursday Next and a scandalised looking Diefenbaker. Slightly behind them, holding open the tent, was an apologetic looking Shadow, and behind him were a collection of serious looking men in yellow hazard suits, led by the dark-haired clapperboard man.
“Sorry,” the collie mumbled, around a mouthful of fabric. “Didn’t mean to knock that plot device over. Made for a good entrance, though.”
“All right,” Thursday said. “Separate and inoculate them. The last thing we need is an outbreak of erotica-themed fable telling.”
Fraser found himself herded onto a stool, watching as Ray was disentangled from his friends, each of them being put into the possession of a pair of yellow-clad agents. He blinked slowly at Thursday as she walked over to him. His head felt very woolly.
“Honestly, Boss,” a disgusted voice said from the vicinity of his knees. Fraser looked down and found Dief glaring at him.
“Hello, Dief.”
“Have you no self-control?” Dief wrinkled his nose. “When I suggested that you get over yourself, this wasn’t what I had in mind! And it certainly didn’t involve stories about pearls!”
“Thank you, Diefenbaker,” Thursday said. “It’s not entirely Benton’s fault, and there really isn’t much use talking to him until the story’s out of his system. Why don’t you see if you can help Shadow keep Falstaff away from anything approaching innuendo?”
The half-wolf snorted loudly, gave Fraser a look that eloquently detailed all the ways in which he. Diefenbaker, considered humans to be stupid, and stalked off.
Fraser watched in interest as one of the yellow-suited men urged him out of his serge and prepared his arm for an injection of a dull grey liquid.
“What’s that?”
Thursday looked up from her mobile footnoterphone and used it to gesture at the syringe. “It’s one of the most boring substances known to exist, and it’s made from the distilled minutes of local council committee meetings. Just the cure for an overdose of erotica.”
“Oh.” Fraser blinked. His arm was tingling where he’d been injected, and he didn’t feel well.
The last thing he heard was Thursday saying: “Greying out is a perfectly normal reaction to the blasted stuff.”