I've Been Plagiarized
Many thanks to loriel_eris for alerting me to the fact that my Jack/Daniel fic Bruised was plagiarized and turned into a Jack/Ianto fic called Utility Cupboard.
Much scorn shall be heaped upon the plagiarist (who has deleted her journal). *scorn*
In general plagiarizing fanfic is pretty retarded. No one is making any profit off of it and all the plagiarist is doing is earning comments off of someone else's creativity. And while it's always nice to hear that people love you-in the case of fanfic, they love the work, not you. So basically what they're saying when they give you positive feedback is, "I love this work that you didn't do." And, personally, I can't imagine that feeling is all that awesome unless the plagiarist is just getting off on tricking people.
Anyway, let's do a quick side-by-side comparison.
My Fic: Jack's fingers fit over the bruise on my left bicep. It's dark purple in the center, radiating to blue on the outer edges, roughly the shape of a boot heel. His knee bumps into an almost all black one on my leg. That one is long and thin, sort of baton-shaped.
* * *
Her Fic: Jack's fingers slide slowly over the bruise just under my collarbone on the right side. It's dark purple in the centre, radiating to blue on the outer edges, the same approximate shape and size as a boot heel. His knee accidentally scrapes against another on my upper thigh, one that’s almost black, long and curved like a crescent moon.
Note: The location of the first bruise changed, but there's still my description of the bruise coloring (oh, look! she changed the spelling!)(Also, funny aside: a previous draft used the phrase "the approximate shape and size.") And then she changed the shape of the second bruise!
My Fic: He couldn't wait-I couldn't wait-to get out of the mountain, so he'd darted his eyes to a supply closet, and we'd met there twenty-five minutes later. Jack was there when I walked in, sitting on the floor in the back, picking his cuticles, and biting his lip. We didn't say anything, he just grabbed me; he hasn't let go.
* * *
Her Fic: Neither of us could wait long enough to get out of the Hub, and I’d always been a little bothered about the fact that the entire front of his office was see-through. Jack has an exhibitionist streak longer than my entire body, but made an obvious glance towards a utility cupboard and we'd met there twenty minutes later. Jack was already there when I walked in, leaning against a precariously-stacked shelf and whistling softly to himself while examining the contents of the furthermost cupboard. We didn't say anything. He closed the distance between us in a matter of seconds and grabbed me; he hasn't let go.
Same events, but she did quite a bit of work in providing Jack's characterization and setting the location. The thing that really upsets me is that she's taking credit for my semi-colon use. Because no one wields a semi-colon like I do. (Also, funny: She didn't use my em dashes.)
My Fic: I prod the cut in my hand, fresh blood pushing out of the slit. "I'm okay," I breathe. I wipe my hand on my black T-shirt and apply pressure.
His eyes shift away, looking up to the underside of the supply shelves above our heads. He tilts his head, thinking. "I should probably get some staples."
I stifle my laugh. "Use yours up shooting them across your office?"
He smirks, eyes easily meeting mine, our normalcy reestablished with one well-placed joke.
* * *
Her Fic: I wipe my hand on my T-shirt and press it against the cool denim near my hip, applying pressure. His eyes shift away, looking up to the underside of the supply shelves above our heads. There are cobwebs; I really should dust down here more often. He cocks his head to one side, as if thinking, and then says, "I should probably get some staples."
I stifle my laugh. "Use them up shooting them across your office again, sir?"
He smirks, eyes easily meeting mine, our normalcy re-established with one well-placed joke. I’m good at that.
She stole my joke. That? Is unforgivable.
Also? She combined two paragraphs with different subjects. Tsk, tsk.
My Fic: "About the staples?" I deflect the verbal intimacy. It's too raw for Jack; I know the limits of our relationship, just how hard to prod the porcelain shell of his masculinity. Bruises fade, cuts heal, but words can be scratched into the surface, engraving that compromises the integrity of a structure.
* * *
Her Fic: "About the staples?" I quickly deflect the spoken intimacy. It's too raw for Jack; I know the limits of our relationship, just how hard to question things, to tease and prod at his pride and masculinity. Bruises fade, cuts heal, but words can be scratched into the surface, engraving that compromises the strength and overall integrity of a structure. Sticks and stones, et cetera.
Okay, I slaved on this paragraph. You think phrases like "engraving that compromises the integrity of a structure" just fall out of trees? In fact this paragraph is what inspired my first FMA fic Porcelain Men (would you like to plagiarize that, too?) because I knew I had that line about "the porcelain shell of his masculinity" and I had wanted to write a whole fic on that subject, so I did when I got to FMA.
My Fic: "Jack." As he turns back to me, I place the ream on a shelf and step close to him, too close. His intake of breath has more to do with fear than titillation. "You can't leave like that."
His eyes search my face, threat assessing, always. His free hand flexes by his side and I know he's already thinking of how to take me down without injuring me further. My dick actually twitches with the knowledge that he'd never intentionally hurt me.
I lick my lips as I slowly lean towards his face. We've never kissed; it's just not something we do. I don't know if it's too personal, or something we only do with women, but Jack and I don't kiss. Which is why I don't take it personally when he flinches. I grab his face between my hands, push him up against the door, and hear the box of staples drop. He freezes when my tongue touches his skin, licking up the drop of come that was still clinging to his lip.
His moan climbs inside my chest and lives in my blood.
His lips taste like both of us. I open my eyes and see it lying bare on Jack's face; somewhere down the road we're both going to shatter. Bruises are nothing compared to what will happen to us.
* * *
Her Fic: "Jack." As he turns back to me, I place the ream on a shelf and step close to him, too close. His intake of breath has more to do with shock than actual intimacy.
"You can't leave like that."
His eyes search my face, startled. Jack’s not used to receiving orders, and it shows. I lick my lips as I slowly lean towards his face.
We've never kissed; it's just not something we do. I don't know if it's too personal, or something we only do with other people, but Jack and I just don’t kiss. Which is why I’m not offended when he shudders, just a little. I grab his face between my hands, push him up against the door, and hear the box of staples drop. His lips taste like both of us. He freezes when my tongue touches his skin, claiming his mouth for my own. Sound waves break in my ears and the surging in my brain feels tidal.
His moan climbs inside my chest and lives in my blood.
I open my eyes and see it lying, silent but glaringly clear on Jack's face. His eyes are scared, and his face is slack, like he’s a thousand years old, so I know he sees it mirrored back.
You know what ticks me off about this? She broke the paragraph for dialogue that doesn't change speakers. ASDJFHKALG. (Yes, I am angry about nonsensical editorial changes. It's the me in me.)
Also, I'd just like to point out that this fic doesn't actually fit Torchwood canon. Fail, plagiarist, fail.
Other SG-1 fics were plagiarized and are being identified here at stop_plagiarism. if you have a moment and are familiar with SG-1 fics, please stop by to help identify the other fics.
Remember kids: plagiarism is bad.
Much scorn shall be heaped upon the plagiarist (who has deleted her journal). *scorn*
In general plagiarizing fanfic is pretty retarded. No one is making any profit off of it and all the plagiarist is doing is earning comments off of someone else's creativity. And while it's always nice to hear that people love you-in the case of fanfic, they love the work, not you. So basically what they're saying when they give you positive feedback is, "I love this work that you didn't do." And, personally, I can't imagine that feeling is all that awesome unless the plagiarist is just getting off on tricking people.
Anyway, let's do a quick side-by-side comparison.
My Fic: Jack's fingers fit over the bruise on my left bicep. It's dark purple in the center, radiating to blue on the outer edges, roughly the shape of a boot heel. His knee bumps into an almost all black one on my leg. That one is long and thin, sort of baton-shaped.
* * *
Her Fic: Jack's fingers slide slowly over the bruise just under my collarbone on the right side. It's dark purple in the centre, radiating to blue on the outer edges, the same approximate shape and size as a boot heel. His knee accidentally scrapes against another on my upper thigh, one that’s almost black, long and curved like a crescent moon.
Note: The location of the first bruise changed, but there's still my description of the bruise coloring (oh, look! she changed the spelling!)(Also, funny aside: a previous draft used the phrase "the approximate shape and size.") And then she changed the shape of the second bruise!
My Fic: He couldn't wait-I couldn't wait-to get out of the mountain, so he'd darted his eyes to a supply closet, and we'd met there twenty-five minutes later. Jack was there when I walked in, sitting on the floor in the back, picking his cuticles, and biting his lip. We didn't say anything, he just grabbed me; he hasn't let go.
* * *
Her Fic: Neither of us could wait long enough to get out of the Hub, and I’d always been a little bothered about the fact that the entire front of his office was see-through. Jack has an exhibitionist streak longer than my entire body, but made an obvious glance towards a utility cupboard and we'd met there twenty minutes later. Jack was already there when I walked in, leaning against a precariously-stacked shelf and whistling softly to himself while examining the contents of the furthermost cupboard. We didn't say anything. He closed the distance between us in a matter of seconds and grabbed me; he hasn't let go.
Same events, but she did quite a bit of work in providing Jack's characterization and setting the location. The thing that really upsets me is that she's taking credit for my semi-colon use. Because no one wields a semi-colon like I do. (Also, funny: She didn't use my em dashes.)
My Fic: I prod the cut in my hand, fresh blood pushing out of the slit. "I'm okay," I breathe. I wipe my hand on my black T-shirt and apply pressure.
His eyes shift away, looking up to the underside of the supply shelves above our heads. He tilts his head, thinking. "I should probably get some staples."
I stifle my laugh. "Use yours up shooting them across your office?"
He smirks, eyes easily meeting mine, our normalcy reestablished with one well-placed joke.
* * *
Her Fic: I wipe my hand on my T-shirt and press it against the cool denim near my hip, applying pressure. His eyes shift away, looking up to the underside of the supply shelves above our heads. There are cobwebs; I really should dust down here more often. He cocks his head to one side, as if thinking, and then says, "I should probably get some staples."
I stifle my laugh. "Use them up shooting them across your office again, sir?"
He smirks, eyes easily meeting mine, our normalcy re-established with one well-placed joke. I’m good at that.
She stole my joke. That? Is unforgivable.
Also? She combined two paragraphs with different subjects. Tsk, tsk.
My Fic: "About the staples?" I deflect the verbal intimacy. It's too raw for Jack; I know the limits of our relationship, just how hard to prod the porcelain shell of his masculinity. Bruises fade, cuts heal, but words can be scratched into the surface, engraving that compromises the integrity of a structure.
* * *
Her Fic: "About the staples?" I quickly deflect the spoken intimacy. It's too raw for Jack; I know the limits of our relationship, just how hard to question things, to tease and prod at his pride and masculinity. Bruises fade, cuts heal, but words can be scratched into the surface, engraving that compromises the strength and overall integrity of a structure. Sticks and stones, et cetera.
Okay, I slaved on this paragraph. You think phrases like "engraving that compromises the integrity of a structure" just fall out of trees? In fact this paragraph is what inspired my first FMA fic Porcelain Men (would you like to plagiarize that, too?) because I knew I had that line about "the porcelain shell of his masculinity" and I had wanted to write a whole fic on that subject, so I did when I got to FMA.
My Fic: "Jack." As he turns back to me, I place the ream on a shelf and step close to him, too close. His intake of breath has more to do with fear than titillation. "You can't leave like that."
His eyes search my face, threat assessing, always. His free hand flexes by his side and I know he's already thinking of how to take me down without injuring me further. My dick actually twitches with the knowledge that he'd never intentionally hurt me.
I lick my lips as I slowly lean towards his face. We've never kissed; it's just not something we do. I don't know if it's too personal, or something we only do with women, but Jack and I don't kiss. Which is why I don't take it personally when he flinches. I grab his face between my hands, push him up against the door, and hear the box of staples drop. He freezes when my tongue touches his skin, licking up the drop of come that was still clinging to his lip.
His moan climbs inside my chest and lives in my blood.
His lips taste like both of us. I open my eyes and see it lying bare on Jack's face; somewhere down the road we're both going to shatter. Bruises are nothing compared to what will happen to us.
* * *
Her Fic: "Jack." As he turns back to me, I place the ream on a shelf and step close to him, too close. His intake of breath has more to do with shock than actual intimacy.
"You can't leave like that."
His eyes search my face, startled. Jack’s not used to receiving orders, and it shows. I lick my lips as I slowly lean towards his face.
We've never kissed; it's just not something we do. I don't know if it's too personal, or something we only do with other people, but Jack and I just don’t kiss. Which is why I’m not offended when he shudders, just a little. I grab his face between my hands, push him up against the door, and hear the box of staples drop. His lips taste like both of us. He freezes when my tongue touches his skin, claiming his mouth for my own. Sound waves break in my ears and the surging in my brain feels tidal.
His moan climbs inside my chest and lives in my blood.
I open my eyes and see it lying, silent but glaringly clear on Jack's face. His eyes are scared, and his face is slack, like he’s a thousand years old, so I know he sees it mirrored back.
You know what ticks me off about this? She broke the paragraph for dialogue that doesn't change speakers. ASDJFHKALG. (Yes, I am angry about nonsensical editorial changes. It's the me in me.)
Also, I'd just like to point out that this fic doesn't actually fit Torchwood canon. Fail, plagiarist, fail.
Other SG-1 fics were plagiarized and are being identified here at stop_plagiarism. if you have a moment and are familiar with SG-1 fics, please stop by to help identify the other fics.
Remember kids: plagiarism is bad.