Plagiarism
It's a first. I've been plagiarized! Or, probably not really the first, but the first time it's been so blatant that someone pointed it out to me.
My story: White Knight, Talking Backwards - posted 11/13/2009
The story, rewritten for another fandom (Whose Line Is It Anyway, of all things!), but identical in nearly all the ways that count: by your side by someone named xheart-of-lifex, posted 2/15/2011
I made a comment demanding it be removed. I'm not really sure what else to do; it's pretty infuriating. But I would suggest that if you've written any J2, or you're writing in Glee, Teen Titans, Harry Potter or several other fandoms, you look through the rest of those journal entries to see if anything is yours; this person has numerous stories on their journal in several fandoms. Thank you, nonnie who gave me the heads up. I appreciate it. ETA: Wow, that was fast; their entry disappeared in the blink of an eye. Nevertheless, I shall leave the post up, so fandom can be aware that this person is a plagiarist. Also, I have screen shots. For posterity, don'tcha know. The stop_plagiarism report I made is here. ETA2: At least one other person has reported xheart-of-lifex for plagiarism today, so I'm planning to put this issue on blast so fandom will go look to see if their stories are being put forth by this person as if he or she wrote them.
Excerpt 1:
My story:
The sound of a voice at the end of his bed roused Jensen from sleep sometime after dark. He rolled over in the pitch black room and looked around, but no one was there. "Okay," he said, gingerly shifting under the sheets, "that's not creepy."
"I beg your pardon," the voice said. "Could you stop kicking me?"
Jensen jerked his legs up and regretted it instantly, since every muscle screamed at him to stay still. He reached for the lamp and turned it on, which only made him sorry he hadn't put a pillow over his face.
A mouse was sitting on his left foot. Even worse, it was...well, it was staring at him with irritation, no doubt about it. There was no mistaking that expression.
"I hit my head," Jensen said, blinking rapidly. "My brain is probably bleeding."
"Ridiculous," scoffed the mouse. Its tiny nose twitched. "You were muttering in your sleep, you know."
"I was?" Jensen said. "Uh."
It occurred to him that since mice don't talk, he definitely wasn't having an actual conversation with one, but just then the mouse sat up, rubbed its nose with a paw and said, "I'm very good at stories. Perhaps you need a story to put you to sleep."
"I don't need a story!"
"Well, then why did you wake me?"
"I did?" Jensen blinked some more, then frowned. "I didn't!"
"Do try to make up your mind." The mouse twitched its whiskers impatiently. "A story, then."
Jensen pinched his arm. He poked himself in the ribs for good measure; sharp jabs of pain rewarded him. Then it dawned on him. "Hallucinating," he said. "I'm hallucinating a mouse."
"Um, technically? I'm a dormouse." The creature sat back on its hind legs. "Now may I continue, or are you going to keep interrupting?"
"I knew I shouldn't have taken that muscle relaxant," Jensen muttered.
"Once upon a time, there were two boys, and their names were Jared and Jensen, and they lived in a house on a hill--"
"This house is not on a hill. Also, seriously, you couldn't come up with something more original?"
"So rude," the dormouse huffed. "To continue! - they lived in a house on a hill, and many of their friends remarked upon the arrangement with great curiosity and speculation."
Jensen closed his eyes and pulled the sheet over his face. Not this again. First Jared's family sending them a new set of dishes, and then Chad dropping off a box of nighties and condoms 'for the wedding night', and then the fans accosting them about their 'feelings'. So what if they had feelings? And even if they did, who said they had to confess them to each other like a couple of big girls with goo-goo eyes? Some things were better left unsaid. Some friends were better left untouched. Or something like that.
"They liked to make music, and they sang many songs--"
"Aren't you gone yet?" Jensen said from beneath the sheet. Something nipped his toe; he definitely did not yelp, but instead quickly tucked his foot underneath his calf in a dignified way.
"If you can't be polite, I won't finish the story."
"Good," Jensen said fervently.
"Humans," the dormouse said with disgust. "As I was saying, they sang many songs beginning with the letter A, such as All Out Of Love, Against All Odds, and Alone --"
"I swear to god, no song by Air Supply has ever profaned my guitar," Jensen said. But then he remembered: Jared had been strumming that song...or maybe he was singing Mandy...the other night, with Jensen's feet tucked under his thigh and Jensen half-drunk and all warm and comfy, and maybe Jared had been looking at him shyly and smiling...
"Ugh," Jensen said, desperately trying to trigger his brain back into a state of perfectly happy denial. "It's not like that."
There was no reply from the dormouse. Jensen peeked out from under the sheet; the thing appeared to be asleep. That was a step in the right direction, but even better, why couldn't it just..fade? And then he could go back to sleep before he hallucinated anything else. Blissful, dream-free sleep. Where there were no ambiguously gay moments with Jared popping into his head.
The mouse slept on, apparently oblivious to Jensen's inability to be comfortable while it was on the bed.
With a sigh, Jensen sat up, wincing at the way his body shrieked in protest, and swung his legs out of bed.
Fortunately, the dormouse stayed put.
Jensen crept out of the bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it, twitching a little. Maybe he could just borrow Jared's bed. But that was creepy and weird.
"And a talking dormouse isn't?"
Plagiarized story:
The sound of a voice at the end of his bed roused Chip from sleep sometime after dark. He rolled over in the pitch black room and looked around, but no one was there except Quinn. "Okay," he said, gingerly shifting under the sheets, "that's not creepy."
"I beg your pardon," the voice said. "Could you stop kicking me?"
Chip jerked his legs up and regretted it instantly, since every muscle screamed at him to stay still. He reached for the lamp and turned it on, which only made him sorry he hadn't put a pillow over his face.
Quinn was sitting - well, more reclining - on his left leg. Even worse, she was...well, she was staring at him with irritation, no doubt about it. There was no mistaking that expression. Chip stopped, because he was almost positive that dogs were incapable of making expressions like that.
"I hit my head," Chip said, blinking rapidly. "My brain is probably bleeding."
"Ridiculous," Quinn scoffed, licking her lips indignantly. "You were muttering in your sleep, you know."
"I was?" Chip said. "Uh."
It occurred to him that since dogs don't talk - and they absolutely didn’t have British accents either - he definitely wasn't having an actual conversation with one, but just then Quinn sat up, rubbed her nose with the back of her paw and said, "I'm very good at stories. Perhaps you need a story to put you to sleep."
"I don't need a story!"
"Well, then why did you wake me?"
"I did?" Chip blinked some more, then frowned. "I didn't!"
"Do try to make up your mind." If it was possible, his dog rolled her eyes impatiently, laying her head down in his lap. "A story, then."
Chip pinched his arm. He poked himself in the ribs for good measure; sharp jabs of pain rewarded him. Then it dawned on him. "Hallucinating," he said. "I'm hallucinating that my pet is talking to me."
"Um, technically? I'm Ryan’s dog." Quinn smiled, sitting sat back on her hind legs. "Now may I continue, or are you going to keep interrupting?"
"I knew I shouldn't have taken that muscle relaxant," Chip muttered, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair.
"Once upon a time, there were two boys, and their names were Ryan and Chip, and they lived in a house on a hill--"
"First, this isn’t a house. It’s a... it’s an apartment. At least, I think it is? And more than that, it is not on a hill at all. You only think that because you can barely make it when we go for a jog! Also, seriously, you couldn't come up with something more original?" Chip stopped, blanking as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Oh my god, I’m having an argument with a dog. A talking dog.”
"So rude," Quinn huffed. "To continue! - they lived in a house on a hill, and many of their friends remarked upon the arrangement with great curiosity and speculation."
Chip closed his eyes and pulled the sheet over his face. Not this again. First Ryan's family sending them a new set of dishes in hopes maybe their son would learn to cook for his ‘new friend’, and then Greg dropping off condoms in their mailbox, failing miserably as he pretended to be an ‘anonymous neighbor who was just trying to promote safe sex’, and then the others accosting them about why they still didn’t have significant others - or more specifically, female significant others. So what if Chip had feelings? And even if he did, who said he had to confess them like a couple of big girls with goo-goo eyes? Some things were better left unsaid. Some friends were better left untouched. Or something like that.
"They liked to make people laugh, and they often made each other laugh a lot--"
"Aren't you, like - gone yet?" Chip said from beneath the sheet. Something nipped at his leg; he definitely did not yelp, but instead quickly started to shake his legs in a completely dignified way.
"If you can't be polite, I won't finish the story."
"Good," Chip said fervently.
"Humans," Quinn said with disgust. "As I was saying, they made each other laugh all the time. With jokes about each other, and especially about certain friends of theirs-"
"Hey, I never do impressions of other people. They’re funny on their own without me adding my charm..." Chip said. But then he remembered: Ryan had been talking about Colin...or maybe it was Mike...the other night, with Chip's feet tucked under his thigh and Chip half-drunk and all warm and comfy, and maybe Ryan had been looking at him and smiling...
"Ugh," Chip said, desperately trying to trigger his brain back into a state of perfectly happy denial. "It's not like that."
There was no reply from hallucination-Quinn. Chip peeked out from under the sheet; the thing appeared to be asleep. That was a step in the right direction, but even better, why couldn't it just..fade? And then he could go back to sleep before he hallucinated anything else. Blissful, dream-free sleep. Where there were no ambiguous moments with Ryan popping into his head.
The dog slept on, apparently oblivious to Chip's inability to be comfortable while it was on the bed.
With a sigh, Chip sat up, wincing at the way his body shrieked in protest, and swung his legs out of bed.
Fortunately, Quinn stayed put.
Chip crept out of the bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it, twitching a little. Maybe he could just borrow Ryan's bed. But that was creepy and weird.
"And a talking dog isn't?"
Excerpt two:
My story:
Jensen stumbled down the last few steps, never mind how he twisted his ankle in his haste to get away, then limped toward the kitchen as fast as he could go. His cell phone was still on the table, in the gym bag. Salvation! He flipped on the light and stopped dead in his tracks.
Two cupcakes were climbing out of the breadbox. Slowly, they tottered across the counter on tiny stick legs, swaying from side to side. Jensen's face crinkled in horror as they plopped down beside the coffeemaker and began licking frosting off each other.
Also, they were singing. Tiny lalalas wafted up from the pastry as they cannibalized each other, red-hot mouths smeared with pink frosting.
"That is not right," Jensen said, loudly enough that they stopped and pivoted his direction. One of them whistled appreciatively; Jensen realized he was standing there in his boxers, basically hanging in the wind. He blushed. The second cupcake kicked the whistler; it squeaked in surprise.
"You're just jealous," the first cupcake said, in a wee piping voice. "Jared looooves to lick us."
"If you were covered in pink frosting, maybe he would lick you," the second cupcake said.
Jensen looked over at the kitchen table, then back at the cupcakes. To get his phone, he'd have to pass them. He was pretty sure he could take them, but he wasn't at his best. In fact, he was really, really tired, and the room was spinning.
"Oh my, you don't look well," said a voice from near the floor. He swayed forward, and Sadie bumped up against his legs. Then she added, "You really should sit down."
"True," Jensen said. He stared at her; she stared back. Then Jensen turned and made his way shakily into the living room. The beautiful, soft couch stretched out in front of him, but it was too far away. He sat down on the floor next to the coffee table, then curled up. The floor was peachy. He could hear the alarm from there.
He fell asleep listening to the low concerned murmuring of the dogs, and the distant giggling of the cupcakes.
Plagiarized story:
Two cupcakes were climbing out of the breadbox. Slowly, they tottered across the counter on tiny stick legs, swaying from side to side. Chip's face crinkled in horror as they plopped down beside the coffee maker and began licking frosting off each other.
Also, they were singing. Tiny lalalas wafted up from the pastry as they cannibalized each other, red-hot mouths smeared with pink frosting.
"That is not right," Chip said, loudly enough that they stopped and pivoted his direction. One of them whistled appreciatively; Chip realized he was standing there in his boxers, basically hanging in the wind. He blushed. The second cupcake kicked the whistler; it squeaked in surprise.
"You're just jealous," the first cupcake said, in a wee piping voice. "Ryan looooves to lick us."
"If you were covered in pink frosting, maybe he would lick you," the second cupcake said.
Chip looked over at the kitchen table, then back at the cupcakes. To get to the phone, he'd have to pass them. He was pretty sure he could take them, but he wasn't at his best. In fact, he was really, really tired, and the room was spinning.
"Oh my, you don't look well," said a voice from near the floor. He swayed forward, and the moldy bread bumped up against his legs. Then it added as it sprayed green crumbs everywhere, "You really should sit down."
"True," Chip said. He stared at it; it stared back. Then Chip turned and made his way shakily into the living room. The beautiful, soft couch stretched out in front of him, but it was too far away. He sat down on the floor next to the coffee table, then curled up. The floor was peachy. He could hear the alarm from there.
He fell asleep listening to the low concerned murmuring of Quinn, and the distant giggling of the cupcakes.
Excerpt 3:
My story:
Jensen woke with a start, wincing because of the sudden motion. The entirety of the previous night and day crashed back in on him, and he looked around wildly. Definitely he was in Jared's room. The clock on the bedside table said 7AM. He was going to be late to set, and Clif hadn't called to let him know he was downstairs, and that new director was kind of an asshole and he was going to bitch and cry about shooting being held up, and Jensen hated to be unprofessional.
"Shit, shit, shit," he said, and flailed a little to get up.
Just then, a long arm reached over his hips, locking him down.
Jensen froze in place. Six feet plus of warm human stretched out behind him on the bed, and there was only one explanation. He cleared his throat and said, "For a hallucination, you're pretty damn strong."
"Uh-huh." Jared snuggled closer to him, which had the unfortunate effect of making Jensen's heart start pounding in his chest. Jared's nose bumped up against the nape of Jensen's neck, and then his lips brushed Jensen's skin. His hand rose to rest against Jensen's bare chest. "Chill, dude. We have half day off while they write me back in."
A half-hysterical thought went through Jensen's head: he's cuddling me. And then, write him back in? "I told them not to call you," he said quietly. "I can't believe you came back."
"I can't believe you didn't call me yourself, you giant asshole." Now Jared was...oh. Soft kisses across Jensen's bruised shoulder, followed by his fingertips, quick and assessing. "That is one hellacious bruise you've got there."
"Uh, Jared?" It wasn't a squeak, but close. Jared, however, didn't seem to notice; he was moving closer, and now his chest was pressed to Jensen's back.
"Can we skip the panic?" Jared said, voice rumbling in Jensen's ear. "I kind of figured it all out last night."
Jensen sighed. "Apparently mixing meds doesn't agree with me."
"That's a matter of opinion." Jensen could feel Jared's smile, not just hear it in his voice; he shivered, and Jared shifted even closer. "Relax, Jen. We've got time to sort it all out. I'm not going anywhere."
Jensen settled down, let himself relax. Those were important words. Everything was going to be okay, if they were true words, and Jared had never lied to him before.
He was drifting off again when a truly horrible thought occurred to him. He turned onto his back to look at Jared; Jared gave him some room, watching him intently. "How did I get to bed? Did you carry me in here?"
"Maybe." Jared smirked. Jensen pictured Jared scooping all six foot one of him up without effort, and bit his lip. "The whole time, you were talking about this frosting fetish of yours." Jared leaned closer, lips against Jensen's ear, and said, "You called me darlin'."
"Oh, hell no I did not," Jensen said vehemently.
"Did too."
"That was the drugs talking!"
Jared tilted his head. "So, all of it was the drugs? That the story you're sticking to?"
Jensen's resolve crumbled in the face of Jared's knowing grin. Damn him. "Um, the kissing was me. The frosting thing, though -- that was totally the cupcakes."
Jared laughed and kissed him until his smile matched Jared's, kisses smiling into each other. Jensen looped an arm around Jared's neck and pulled him closer, never mind the bruises; he could take a little pain.
Besides, if the dormouse was singing Air Supply classics under the bed, with the cupcakes humming backup -- that was no one's business but Jensen's, anyway.
Plagiarized story:
Chip woke with a start, wincing because of the sudden motion. The entirety of the previous night and day crashed back in on him, and he looked around wildly. Definitely he was in Ryan's room. The clock on the bedside table said noon. He was going to be late to set, and after what happened yesterday that was the last thing he really needed, and Chip hated to be unprofessional.
"Shit, shit, shit," he said, and flailed a little to get up.
Just then, a long arm reached over his hips, locking him down.
Chip froze in place. Six feet plus of warm human stretched out behind him on the bed, and there was only one explanation. He cleared his throat and said, "For a hallucination, you're pretty damn strong."
"Uh-huh." Ryan smiled at him, which had the unfortunate effect of making Chip's heart start pounding in his chest. Ryan's fingers brushed against the nape of Chip's neck, his lips soft against Chip's skin. His hand rose to rest against Chip's bare chest. "Will you relax, you idiot? I told Clive that I’m back early, so instead of retaping yesterday’s episode, he decided to just scrap it and start fresh tomorrow."
A half-hysterical thought went through Chip's head: his lips are touching me. And then, back early? "I told them not to call you," he said quietly. "I can't believe you came back."
"I can't believe you didn't call me yourself, you giant asshole." Now Ryan was...okay, that was new. Soft kisses across Chip's bruised shoulder, followed by his fingertips, quick and dancing. "That is one fucking helluva bruise you've got there."
"Uh, Ryan?" It wasn't a squeak, but close. Ryan, however, didn't seem to notice; he was moving closer, and now his chest was pressed to Chip's back.
"Can we skip all the panic that I can sense in your voice?" Ryan said, voice rumbling in Chip's ear. "I kind of figured it all out last night."
Chip sighed. "Apparently mixing meds doesn't agree with me."
"That's a matter of opinion." Chip could feel Ryan's smile, not just hear it in his voice; he shivered, and Ryan shifted even closer. "Relax, Chip. We've got time to sort it all out. I'm not going anywhere."
Chip settled down, let himself relax. Those were important words. Everything was going to be okay, if they were true words, and Ryan had never lied to him before.
He was drifting off again when a truly horrible thought occurred to him. He turned onto his back to look at Ryan; Ryan gave him some room, watching him intently. "How did I get to bed? Did you carry me in here?"
"Maybe." Ryan smirked. Chip pictured Ryan scooping all six foot one of him up without effort, and bit his lip. "The whole time, you were talking about this frosting fetish of yours." Ryan leaned closer, chuckling softly with his lips against Chip's ear, and said, "You called me darlin' and told me that I was a ‘pretty young thang’. You seem to be pretty connected to a Southern accent that you don’t have..."
"I did not," Chip said vehemently.
"Did too."
"That was the drugs talking!"
Ryan tilted his head, his lips turning up in a smirk. "So, all of it was the drugs? That the story you're sticking to?"
Chip's resolve crumbled in the face of Ryan's knowing grin. Damn him. "Um, the kissing was me. The frosting thing, though -- that was totally the talking cupcakes."
Ryan laughed and kissed him until his smile matched Ryan's, kisses smiling into each other. Chip looped an arm around Ryan's neck and pulled him closer. Never mind the bruises; he could take a little pain if this was what came out of it.
Excerpt 4:
My story:
"How's it going with that director?" Jared asked.
"What? Oh. He's an asshole. He likes to do multiple takes for the hell of it. Thinks he gets the best out of an actor in the editing room."
"Christ. You should tell Kripke, wastin' everybody's time that way." There was some static, jostling maybe, like Jared was juggling his phone. "My babies doin' all right?" He drew the last two words out into a deep drawl, and it sounded like home to Jensen.
"Sure." It occurred to Jensen, too late, that it was a damn good thing the dogs were too busy eating to bark; Jared knew they weren't on set with Jensen, and the barking would be a dead giveaway.
"Jensen?" The crowd noise in Jensen's ear diminished. Jared must be moving. "Everything okay?"
"Sure," Jensen said again. He took a deep breath and regretted it, tried to keep the hitch out of his inhale. "Just tryin' to live vicariously through you, since some of us are earning our paycheck."
"Low blow, man. I earned mine at that last convention. Hey, we're gettin' ready to roll. How bout I call you back later?"
"Gonna be on set 'til late," Jensen said. "I'll pick up if I can."
"You do that. Later!"
Jensen threw his phone into his gym bag and took out the meds the doctor had given him. Each of the little yellow envelopes pressed into his hand by the set medic yielded their hoarded gold: muscle relaxant, pain pill, and sleeping pill. He tossed them all back with the dregs of the orange juice, then wobbled to his feet. Sadie flopped over on her side and stared at him, satiated, but Harley hopped around the kitchen like a cat, barking at a stray piece of kibble.
"Harley, I would really hate to have to kill you." Harley tilted his head, then came closer, panting. He nudged Jensen's knee, maybe an apology, and sat down by his chair. Jensen scratched him behind the collar. "You suppose you could give me a ride upstairs?"
From her place on the floor, Sadie made a noise much like doggie laughter, mocking his pathetic, aging body.
It took him five minutes to get upstairs - he stopped to rest twice - and another five to get undressed. After that, the shower seemed pretty pointless. Slowly, so very slowly, he eased into bed and set the alarm clock on the other pillow. 5AM was going to come really fucking early.
Plagiarized story:
Ryan picked up on the second ring and shouted, "Figured you were working!" It didn’t really surprise him that Ryan could know it was him without him even saying hello. It was just like that for them. There was laughter and crowd noise behind him, and Chip wasn't envious at all. Nope. At least hearing Ryan's voice was cheering him up. Things with them were funny that way.
"Finished up early. Greg finally managed his way through a Hoedown without killing any small children," he answered. He opened the fridge, stared at the gallon of milk, a ziplock bag with some shredded cheese, and four beers, and shut it again. The breadbox held some ancient cupcakes and one moldy slice of bread, none of it edible. Cooking something from the freezer required too much effort, so Chip just grabbed the carton of milk to take the pills he had.
"How's everything else going? You’re still not worrying about every single take or fucking up the show, right?" Ryan asked.
"What? Oh. Fine. No, no, I’m good... I just can’t help it, Ry. I’m still the new guy around here."
"Christ, Chip. How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing to worry about? No one else can poke a guy’s eye out on a first show like you can..." There was some static, jostling maybe, like Ryan was juggling his phone. "My baby doin' all right?" He drew the last two words out into a deep drawl, and it sounded like home to Chip.
"Sure." A slow burn ached its way through Chips stomach, wrapping over his chest and thrumming along his limbs. Maybe it was the fact that his ribs had been pulverized and he wanted the pain to go away, but he just couldn’t stop that feeling of neediness.
"Chip?" The crowd noise in Chip's ear diminished. Ryan must be moving. "Everything okay?"
"Sure," Chip said again. He took a deep breath and regretted it, tried to keep the hitch out of his inhale as he gripped onto his abdomen. "Just tryin' to live vicariously through you, since some of us are earning our paycheck."
"Low blow, man. I was earning mine for plenty of episodes before you. Hey, we're gettin' ready to head out. How bout I call you back later?"
"Yeah, sure," Chip mumbled. "I'll pick up if I can."
"You do that. Later!"
Chip threw the phone back onto the holster and took out the meds the doctor had given him. Each of the little yellow envelopes pressed into his hand by the medic called by Clive (who Chip kind of doubted had a legitimate medical degree) yielded their hoarded gold: muscle relaxant, pain pill, and sleeping pill (which made Chip not really care about earlier doubt). He tossed them all back with the swig of the milk, then wobbled to his feet. Quinn flopped over on her side and stared at him, satiated, but then slowly got back onto her feet and hopped around the kitchen like a cat, barking at a stray piece of kibble.
"Quinn, I would really hate to have to kill you, you stupid schizophrenic mutt." She tilted her head, then came closer, panting. Nudging Chip's knee, maybe in an apology, she sat down by his chair. Chip scratched her behind the collar. "You suppose you could give me a ride to my room?"
From her place, she made a noise much like doggie laughter, mocking his pathetic, aging body.
It took him five minutes to get across the flat - he stopped to rest twice - and another five to get undressed. After that, the shower seemed pretty pointless. Slowly, so very slowly, he eased into bed and set the alarm clock on the other pillow. 10AM was going to come really fucking early.
Sigh.
My story: White Knight, Talking Backwards - posted 11/13/2009
The story, rewritten for another fandom (Whose Line Is It Anyway, of all things!), but identical in nearly all the ways that count: by your side by someone named xheart-of-lifex, posted 2/15/2011
I made a comment demanding it be removed. I'm not really sure what else to do; it's pretty infuriating. But I would suggest that if you've written any J2, or you're writing in Glee, Teen Titans, Harry Potter or several other fandoms, you look through the rest of those journal entries to see if anything is yours; this person has numerous stories on their journal in several fandoms. Thank you, nonnie who gave me the heads up. I appreciate it. ETA: Wow, that was fast; their entry disappeared in the blink of an eye. Nevertheless, I shall leave the post up, so fandom can be aware that this person is a plagiarist. Also, I have screen shots. For posterity, don'tcha know. The stop_plagiarism report I made is here. ETA2: At least one other person has reported xheart-of-lifex for plagiarism today, so I'm planning to put this issue on blast so fandom will go look to see if their stories are being put forth by this person as if he or she wrote them.
Excerpt 1:
My story:
The sound of a voice at the end of his bed roused Jensen from sleep sometime after dark. He rolled over in the pitch black room and looked around, but no one was there. "Okay," he said, gingerly shifting under the sheets, "that's not creepy."
"I beg your pardon," the voice said. "Could you stop kicking me?"
Jensen jerked his legs up and regretted it instantly, since every muscle screamed at him to stay still. He reached for the lamp and turned it on, which only made him sorry he hadn't put a pillow over his face.
A mouse was sitting on his left foot. Even worse, it was...well, it was staring at him with irritation, no doubt about it. There was no mistaking that expression.
"I hit my head," Jensen said, blinking rapidly. "My brain is probably bleeding."
"Ridiculous," scoffed the mouse. Its tiny nose twitched. "You were muttering in your sleep, you know."
"I was?" Jensen said. "Uh."
It occurred to him that since mice don't talk, he definitely wasn't having an actual conversation with one, but just then the mouse sat up, rubbed its nose with a paw and said, "I'm very good at stories. Perhaps you need a story to put you to sleep."
"I don't need a story!"
"Well, then why did you wake me?"
"I did?" Jensen blinked some more, then frowned. "I didn't!"
"Do try to make up your mind." The mouse twitched its whiskers impatiently. "A story, then."
Jensen pinched his arm. He poked himself in the ribs for good measure; sharp jabs of pain rewarded him. Then it dawned on him. "Hallucinating," he said. "I'm hallucinating a mouse."
"Um, technically? I'm a dormouse." The creature sat back on its hind legs. "Now may I continue, or are you going to keep interrupting?"
"I knew I shouldn't have taken that muscle relaxant," Jensen muttered.
"Once upon a time, there were two boys, and their names were Jared and Jensen, and they lived in a house on a hill--"
"This house is not on a hill. Also, seriously, you couldn't come up with something more original?"
"So rude," the dormouse huffed. "To continue! - they lived in a house on a hill, and many of their friends remarked upon the arrangement with great curiosity and speculation."
Jensen closed his eyes and pulled the sheet over his face. Not this again. First Jared's family sending them a new set of dishes, and then Chad dropping off a box of nighties and condoms 'for the wedding night', and then the fans accosting them about their 'feelings'. So what if they had feelings? And even if they did, who said they had to confess them to each other like a couple of big girls with goo-goo eyes? Some things were better left unsaid. Some friends were better left untouched. Or something like that.
"They liked to make music, and they sang many songs--"
"Aren't you gone yet?" Jensen said from beneath the sheet. Something nipped his toe; he definitely did not yelp, but instead quickly tucked his foot underneath his calf in a dignified way.
"If you can't be polite, I won't finish the story."
"Good," Jensen said fervently.
"Humans," the dormouse said with disgust. "As I was saying, they sang many songs beginning with the letter A, such as All Out Of Love, Against All Odds, and Alone --"
"I swear to god, no song by Air Supply has ever profaned my guitar," Jensen said. But then he remembered: Jared had been strumming that song...or maybe he was singing Mandy...the other night, with Jensen's feet tucked under his thigh and Jensen half-drunk and all warm and comfy, and maybe Jared had been looking at him shyly and smiling...
"Ugh," Jensen said, desperately trying to trigger his brain back into a state of perfectly happy denial. "It's not like that."
There was no reply from the dormouse. Jensen peeked out from under the sheet; the thing appeared to be asleep. That was a step in the right direction, but even better, why couldn't it just..fade? And then he could go back to sleep before he hallucinated anything else. Blissful, dream-free sleep. Where there were no ambiguously gay moments with Jared popping into his head.
The mouse slept on, apparently oblivious to Jensen's inability to be comfortable while it was on the bed.
With a sigh, Jensen sat up, wincing at the way his body shrieked in protest, and swung his legs out of bed.
Fortunately, the dormouse stayed put.
Jensen crept out of the bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it, twitching a little. Maybe he could just borrow Jared's bed. But that was creepy and weird.
"And a talking dormouse isn't?"
Plagiarized story:
The sound of a voice at the end of his bed roused Chip from sleep sometime after dark. He rolled over in the pitch black room and looked around, but no one was there except Quinn. "Okay," he said, gingerly shifting under the sheets, "that's not creepy."
"I beg your pardon," the voice said. "Could you stop kicking me?"
Chip jerked his legs up and regretted it instantly, since every muscle screamed at him to stay still. He reached for the lamp and turned it on, which only made him sorry he hadn't put a pillow over his face.
Quinn was sitting - well, more reclining - on his left leg. Even worse, she was...well, she was staring at him with irritation, no doubt about it. There was no mistaking that expression. Chip stopped, because he was almost positive that dogs were incapable of making expressions like that.
"I hit my head," Chip said, blinking rapidly. "My brain is probably bleeding."
"Ridiculous," Quinn scoffed, licking her lips indignantly. "You were muttering in your sleep, you know."
"I was?" Chip said. "Uh."
It occurred to him that since dogs don't talk - and they absolutely didn’t have British accents either - he definitely wasn't having an actual conversation with one, but just then Quinn sat up, rubbed her nose with the back of her paw and said, "I'm very good at stories. Perhaps you need a story to put you to sleep."
"I don't need a story!"
"Well, then why did you wake me?"
"I did?" Chip blinked some more, then frowned. "I didn't!"
"Do try to make up your mind." If it was possible, his dog rolled her eyes impatiently, laying her head down in his lap. "A story, then."
Chip pinched his arm. He poked himself in the ribs for good measure; sharp jabs of pain rewarded him. Then it dawned on him. "Hallucinating," he said. "I'm hallucinating that my pet is talking to me."
"Um, technically? I'm Ryan’s dog." Quinn smiled, sitting sat back on her hind legs. "Now may I continue, or are you going to keep interrupting?"
"I knew I shouldn't have taken that muscle relaxant," Chip muttered, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair.
"Once upon a time, there were two boys, and their names were Ryan and Chip, and they lived in a house on a hill--"
"First, this isn’t a house. It’s a... it’s an apartment. At least, I think it is? And more than that, it is not on a hill at all. You only think that because you can barely make it when we go for a jog! Also, seriously, you couldn't come up with something more original?" Chip stopped, blanking as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Oh my god, I’m having an argument with a dog. A talking dog.”
"So rude," Quinn huffed. "To continue! - they lived in a house on a hill, and many of their friends remarked upon the arrangement with great curiosity and speculation."
Chip closed his eyes and pulled the sheet over his face. Not this again. First Ryan's family sending them a new set of dishes in hopes maybe their son would learn to cook for his ‘new friend’, and then Greg dropping off condoms in their mailbox, failing miserably as he pretended to be an ‘anonymous neighbor who was just trying to promote safe sex’, and then the others accosting them about why they still didn’t have significant others - or more specifically, female significant others. So what if Chip had feelings? And even if he did, who said he had to confess them like a couple of big girls with goo-goo eyes? Some things were better left unsaid. Some friends were better left untouched. Or something like that.
"They liked to make people laugh, and they often made each other laugh a lot--"
"Aren't you, like - gone yet?" Chip said from beneath the sheet. Something nipped at his leg; he definitely did not yelp, but instead quickly started to shake his legs in a completely dignified way.
"If you can't be polite, I won't finish the story."
"Good," Chip said fervently.
"Humans," Quinn said with disgust. "As I was saying, they made each other laugh all the time. With jokes about each other, and especially about certain friends of theirs-"
"Hey, I never do impressions of other people. They’re funny on their own without me adding my charm..." Chip said. But then he remembered: Ryan had been talking about Colin...or maybe it was Mike...the other night, with Chip's feet tucked under his thigh and Chip half-drunk and all warm and comfy, and maybe Ryan had been looking at him and smiling...
"Ugh," Chip said, desperately trying to trigger his brain back into a state of perfectly happy denial. "It's not like that."
There was no reply from hallucination-Quinn. Chip peeked out from under the sheet; the thing appeared to be asleep. That was a step in the right direction, but even better, why couldn't it just..fade? And then he could go back to sleep before he hallucinated anything else. Blissful, dream-free sleep. Where there were no ambiguous moments with Ryan popping into his head.
The dog slept on, apparently oblivious to Chip's inability to be comfortable while it was on the bed.
With a sigh, Chip sat up, wincing at the way his body shrieked in protest, and swung his legs out of bed.
Fortunately, Quinn stayed put.
Chip crept out of the bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it, twitching a little. Maybe he could just borrow Ryan's bed. But that was creepy and weird.
"And a talking dog isn't?"
Excerpt two:
My story:
Jensen stumbled down the last few steps, never mind how he twisted his ankle in his haste to get away, then limped toward the kitchen as fast as he could go. His cell phone was still on the table, in the gym bag. Salvation! He flipped on the light and stopped dead in his tracks.
Two cupcakes were climbing out of the breadbox. Slowly, they tottered across the counter on tiny stick legs, swaying from side to side. Jensen's face crinkled in horror as they plopped down beside the coffeemaker and began licking frosting off each other.
Also, they were singing. Tiny lalalas wafted up from the pastry as they cannibalized each other, red-hot mouths smeared with pink frosting.
"That is not right," Jensen said, loudly enough that they stopped and pivoted his direction. One of them whistled appreciatively; Jensen realized he was standing there in his boxers, basically hanging in the wind. He blushed. The second cupcake kicked the whistler; it squeaked in surprise.
"You're just jealous," the first cupcake said, in a wee piping voice. "Jared looooves to lick us."
"If you were covered in pink frosting, maybe he would lick you," the second cupcake said.
Jensen looked over at the kitchen table, then back at the cupcakes. To get his phone, he'd have to pass them. He was pretty sure he could take them, but he wasn't at his best. In fact, he was really, really tired, and the room was spinning.
"Oh my, you don't look well," said a voice from near the floor. He swayed forward, and Sadie bumped up against his legs. Then she added, "You really should sit down."
"True," Jensen said. He stared at her; she stared back. Then Jensen turned and made his way shakily into the living room. The beautiful, soft couch stretched out in front of him, but it was too far away. He sat down on the floor next to the coffee table, then curled up. The floor was peachy. He could hear the alarm from there.
He fell asleep listening to the low concerned murmuring of the dogs, and the distant giggling of the cupcakes.
Plagiarized story:
Two cupcakes were climbing out of the breadbox. Slowly, they tottered across the counter on tiny stick legs, swaying from side to side. Chip's face crinkled in horror as they plopped down beside the coffee maker and began licking frosting off each other.
Also, they were singing. Tiny lalalas wafted up from the pastry as they cannibalized each other, red-hot mouths smeared with pink frosting.
"That is not right," Chip said, loudly enough that they stopped and pivoted his direction. One of them whistled appreciatively; Chip realized he was standing there in his boxers, basically hanging in the wind. He blushed. The second cupcake kicked the whistler; it squeaked in surprise.
"You're just jealous," the first cupcake said, in a wee piping voice. "Ryan looooves to lick us."
"If you were covered in pink frosting, maybe he would lick you," the second cupcake said.
Chip looked over at the kitchen table, then back at the cupcakes. To get to the phone, he'd have to pass them. He was pretty sure he could take them, but he wasn't at his best. In fact, he was really, really tired, and the room was spinning.
"Oh my, you don't look well," said a voice from near the floor. He swayed forward, and the moldy bread bumped up against his legs. Then it added as it sprayed green crumbs everywhere, "You really should sit down."
"True," Chip said. He stared at it; it stared back. Then Chip turned and made his way shakily into the living room. The beautiful, soft couch stretched out in front of him, but it was too far away. He sat down on the floor next to the coffee table, then curled up. The floor was peachy. He could hear the alarm from there.
He fell asleep listening to the low concerned murmuring of Quinn, and the distant giggling of the cupcakes.
Excerpt 3:
My story:
Jensen woke with a start, wincing because of the sudden motion. The entirety of the previous night and day crashed back in on him, and he looked around wildly. Definitely he was in Jared's room. The clock on the bedside table said 7AM. He was going to be late to set, and Clif hadn't called to let him know he was downstairs, and that new director was kind of an asshole and he was going to bitch and cry about shooting being held up, and Jensen hated to be unprofessional.
"Shit, shit, shit," he said, and flailed a little to get up.
Just then, a long arm reached over his hips, locking him down.
Jensen froze in place. Six feet plus of warm human stretched out behind him on the bed, and there was only one explanation. He cleared his throat and said, "For a hallucination, you're pretty damn strong."
"Uh-huh." Jared snuggled closer to him, which had the unfortunate effect of making Jensen's heart start pounding in his chest. Jared's nose bumped up against the nape of Jensen's neck, and then his lips brushed Jensen's skin. His hand rose to rest against Jensen's bare chest. "Chill, dude. We have half day off while they write me back in."
A half-hysterical thought went through Jensen's head: he's cuddling me. And then, write him back in? "I told them not to call you," he said quietly. "I can't believe you came back."
"I can't believe you didn't call me yourself, you giant asshole." Now Jared was...oh. Soft kisses across Jensen's bruised shoulder, followed by his fingertips, quick and assessing. "That is one hellacious bruise you've got there."
"Uh, Jared?" It wasn't a squeak, but close. Jared, however, didn't seem to notice; he was moving closer, and now his chest was pressed to Jensen's back.
"Can we skip the panic?" Jared said, voice rumbling in Jensen's ear. "I kind of figured it all out last night."
Jensen sighed. "Apparently mixing meds doesn't agree with me."
"That's a matter of opinion." Jensen could feel Jared's smile, not just hear it in his voice; he shivered, and Jared shifted even closer. "Relax, Jen. We've got time to sort it all out. I'm not going anywhere."
Jensen settled down, let himself relax. Those were important words. Everything was going to be okay, if they were true words, and Jared had never lied to him before.
He was drifting off again when a truly horrible thought occurred to him. He turned onto his back to look at Jared; Jared gave him some room, watching him intently. "How did I get to bed? Did you carry me in here?"
"Maybe." Jared smirked. Jensen pictured Jared scooping all six foot one of him up without effort, and bit his lip. "The whole time, you were talking about this frosting fetish of yours." Jared leaned closer, lips against Jensen's ear, and said, "You called me darlin'."
"Oh, hell no I did not," Jensen said vehemently.
"Did too."
"That was the drugs talking!"
Jared tilted his head. "So, all of it was the drugs? That the story you're sticking to?"
Jensen's resolve crumbled in the face of Jared's knowing grin. Damn him. "Um, the kissing was me. The frosting thing, though -- that was totally the cupcakes."
Jared laughed and kissed him until his smile matched Jared's, kisses smiling into each other. Jensen looped an arm around Jared's neck and pulled him closer, never mind the bruises; he could take a little pain.
Besides, if the dormouse was singing Air Supply classics under the bed, with the cupcakes humming backup -- that was no one's business but Jensen's, anyway.
Plagiarized story:
Chip woke with a start, wincing because of the sudden motion. The entirety of the previous night and day crashed back in on him, and he looked around wildly. Definitely he was in Ryan's room. The clock on the bedside table said noon. He was going to be late to set, and after what happened yesterday that was the last thing he really needed, and Chip hated to be unprofessional.
"Shit, shit, shit," he said, and flailed a little to get up.
Just then, a long arm reached over his hips, locking him down.
Chip froze in place. Six feet plus of warm human stretched out behind him on the bed, and there was only one explanation. He cleared his throat and said, "For a hallucination, you're pretty damn strong."
"Uh-huh." Ryan smiled at him, which had the unfortunate effect of making Chip's heart start pounding in his chest. Ryan's fingers brushed against the nape of Chip's neck, his lips soft against Chip's skin. His hand rose to rest against Chip's bare chest. "Will you relax, you idiot? I told Clive that I’m back early, so instead of retaping yesterday’s episode, he decided to just scrap it and start fresh tomorrow."
A half-hysterical thought went through Chip's head: his lips are touching me. And then, back early? "I told them not to call you," he said quietly. "I can't believe you came back."
"I can't believe you didn't call me yourself, you giant asshole." Now Ryan was...okay, that was new. Soft kisses across Chip's bruised shoulder, followed by his fingertips, quick and dancing. "That is one fucking helluva bruise you've got there."
"Uh, Ryan?" It wasn't a squeak, but close. Ryan, however, didn't seem to notice; he was moving closer, and now his chest was pressed to Chip's back.
"Can we skip all the panic that I can sense in your voice?" Ryan said, voice rumbling in Chip's ear. "I kind of figured it all out last night."
Chip sighed. "Apparently mixing meds doesn't agree with me."
"That's a matter of opinion." Chip could feel Ryan's smile, not just hear it in his voice; he shivered, and Ryan shifted even closer. "Relax, Chip. We've got time to sort it all out. I'm not going anywhere."
Chip settled down, let himself relax. Those were important words. Everything was going to be okay, if they were true words, and Ryan had never lied to him before.
He was drifting off again when a truly horrible thought occurred to him. He turned onto his back to look at Ryan; Ryan gave him some room, watching him intently. "How did I get to bed? Did you carry me in here?"
"Maybe." Ryan smirked. Chip pictured Ryan scooping all six foot one of him up without effort, and bit his lip. "The whole time, you were talking about this frosting fetish of yours." Ryan leaned closer, chuckling softly with his lips against Chip's ear, and said, "You called me darlin' and told me that I was a ‘pretty young thang’. You seem to be pretty connected to a Southern accent that you don’t have..."
"I did not," Chip said vehemently.
"Did too."
"That was the drugs talking!"
Ryan tilted his head, his lips turning up in a smirk. "So, all of it was the drugs? That the story you're sticking to?"
Chip's resolve crumbled in the face of Ryan's knowing grin. Damn him. "Um, the kissing was me. The frosting thing, though -- that was totally the talking cupcakes."
Ryan laughed and kissed him until his smile matched Ryan's, kisses smiling into each other. Chip looped an arm around Ryan's neck and pulled him closer. Never mind the bruises; he could take a little pain if this was what came out of it.
Excerpt 4:
My story:
"How's it going with that director?" Jared asked.
"What? Oh. He's an asshole. He likes to do multiple takes for the hell of it. Thinks he gets the best out of an actor in the editing room."
"Christ. You should tell Kripke, wastin' everybody's time that way." There was some static, jostling maybe, like Jared was juggling his phone. "My babies doin' all right?" He drew the last two words out into a deep drawl, and it sounded like home to Jensen.
"Sure." It occurred to Jensen, too late, that it was a damn good thing the dogs were too busy eating to bark; Jared knew they weren't on set with Jensen, and the barking would be a dead giveaway.
"Jensen?" The crowd noise in Jensen's ear diminished. Jared must be moving. "Everything okay?"
"Sure," Jensen said again. He took a deep breath and regretted it, tried to keep the hitch out of his inhale. "Just tryin' to live vicariously through you, since some of us are earning our paycheck."
"Low blow, man. I earned mine at that last convention. Hey, we're gettin' ready to roll. How bout I call you back later?"
"Gonna be on set 'til late," Jensen said. "I'll pick up if I can."
"You do that. Later!"
Jensen threw his phone into his gym bag and took out the meds the doctor had given him. Each of the little yellow envelopes pressed into his hand by the set medic yielded their hoarded gold: muscle relaxant, pain pill, and sleeping pill. He tossed them all back with the dregs of the orange juice, then wobbled to his feet. Sadie flopped over on her side and stared at him, satiated, but Harley hopped around the kitchen like a cat, barking at a stray piece of kibble.
"Harley, I would really hate to have to kill you." Harley tilted his head, then came closer, panting. He nudged Jensen's knee, maybe an apology, and sat down by his chair. Jensen scratched him behind the collar. "You suppose you could give me a ride upstairs?"
From her place on the floor, Sadie made a noise much like doggie laughter, mocking his pathetic, aging body.
It took him five minutes to get upstairs - he stopped to rest twice - and another five to get undressed. After that, the shower seemed pretty pointless. Slowly, so very slowly, he eased into bed and set the alarm clock on the other pillow. 5AM was going to come really fucking early.
Plagiarized story:
Ryan picked up on the second ring and shouted, "Figured you were working!" It didn’t really surprise him that Ryan could know it was him without him even saying hello. It was just like that for them. There was laughter and crowd noise behind him, and Chip wasn't envious at all. Nope. At least hearing Ryan's voice was cheering him up. Things with them were funny that way.
"Finished up early. Greg finally managed his way through a Hoedown without killing any small children," he answered. He opened the fridge, stared at the gallon of milk, a ziplock bag with some shredded cheese, and four beers, and shut it again. The breadbox held some ancient cupcakes and one moldy slice of bread, none of it edible. Cooking something from the freezer required too much effort, so Chip just grabbed the carton of milk to take the pills he had.
"How's everything else going? You’re still not worrying about every single take or fucking up the show, right?" Ryan asked.
"What? Oh. Fine. No, no, I’m good... I just can’t help it, Ry. I’m still the new guy around here."
"Christ, Chip. How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing to worry about? No one else can poke a guy’s eye out on a first show like you can..." There was some static, jostling maybe, like Ryan was juggling his phone. "My baby doin' all right?" He drew the last two words out into a deep drawl, and it sounded like home to Chip.
"Sure." A slow burn ached its way through Chips stomach, wrapping over his chest and thrumming along his limbs. Maybe it was the fact that his ribs had been pulverized and he wanted the pain to go away, but he just couldn’t stop that feeling of neediness.
"Chip?" The crowd noise in Chip's ear diminished. Ryan must be moving. "Everything okay?"
"Sure," Chip said again. He took a deep breath and regretted it, tried to keep the hitch out of his inhale as he gripped onto his abdomen. "Just tryin' to live vicariously through you, since some of us are earning our paycheck."
"Low blow, man. I was earning mine for plenty of episodes before you. Hey, we're gettin' ready to head out. How bout I call you back later?"
"Yeah, sure," Chip mumbled. "I'll pick up if I can."
"You do that. Later!"
Chip threw the phone back onto the holster and took out the meds the doctor had given him. Each of the little yellow envelopes pressed into his hand by the medic called by Clive (who Chip kind of doubted had a legitimate medical degree) yielded their hoarded gold: muscle relaxant, pain pill, and sleeping pill (which made Chip not really care about earlier doubt). He tossed them all back with the swig of the milk, then wobbled to his feet. Quinn flopped over on her side and stared at him, satiated, but then slowly got back onto her feet and hopped around the kitchen like a cat, barking at a stray piece of kibble.
"Quinn, I would really hate to have to kill you, you stupid schizophrenic mutt." She tilted her head, then came closer, panting. Nudging Chip's knee, maybe in an apology, she sat down by his chair. Chip scratched her behind the collar. "You suppose you could give me a ride to my room?"
From her place, she made a noise much like doggie laughter, mocking his pathetic, aging body.
It took him five minutes to get across the flat - he stopped to rest twice - and another five to get undressed. After that, the shower seemed pretty pointless. Slowly, so very slowly, he eased into bed and set the alarm clock on the other pillow. 10AM was going to come really fucking early.
Sigh.