Twifuckery, Ch 1

**A/N: I totally blame the inception of this crack fic on Charity because she kept  regaling me via PMs with bad sex trope from some fics she was trying to read today.  In case you were wondering,  “secret garden”, “vulva”, and “globes” were some of the worst offenders that she snickered/threw at me ON PURPOSE – I have the PMs as proof, y’all…   (All three of those terms or descriptions are fine in their own way but caused uproarious laugher when thrown into a sex scene…and when told to me, too.)

This crack fic autta learn’er… 

(I was totally fine in my wee li’l life until she reported seeing the phrase “secret garden” written in some fic, and naturally I wondered if said “secret garden” were ever fertilized and if so, how DID her garden grow??  Did she trim it regularly?  Did she ever have to use pesticides?  If so, for what kinds of bugs were they?)  

The following is not only not edited (allergies are killing me), it’s not going to BE edited – it is what it is:  the ramblings of a very irreverent, scarylicious brainbox who apparently enjoys lambasting problems in the fic world WAY WAY WAY too much, and who enjoys thinking the thinky thoughts thoughtfully (see fic).  And the over-descriptions here and in the fic are absolutely on purpose…**

 Twifuckery

Emowad Sullen (Edward of the Cullen variety, henceforth known as Emowad or Emofuck, etc…) exited his grey, all 50 shades of it, purr-mobile and, upon standing, had to adjust what there was of his male secret garden. After straightening his skin-tight junk-squishing black emo-jeans and his ironic scarf, he raised his long, feminine piano-hands to reposition his perfectly-coiffed acorn ‘do. He reassured himself that the alien landing patch was still secured to the back of his skull, then intensely cuffed the sleeves of his close-fitting white button-up exactly 1.5 rolls each.

Once satisfied that his appearance was working for him, he strode languidly toward the trunk of his car, being sure to caressingly stroke the lines of his Vulva along the way. His first high school class of the day was scheduled to begin in exactly 6 minutes, 28 seconds, and he had to grab his <insert appropriate brand name here> backpack so as to blend in with the other students.

“One should never simply toss one’s <insert appropriate brand name here> backpack carelessly into one’s back seating,” he preened to himself. “Why, that could scuff the seating and it’s at least three months until I can purchase a newer model without the risk of drawing attention to my rich, handsome (so MamaEsme tells me) vampire self.”

With his hearing so sharp that he could hear the class bell ringing a full two minutes before it actually rang, Emowad slunk and strode arrogantly and conceitedly into his first class of the day, and stood poised (with his hip jutting out “just so” and his elbows at the proper angles) by his assigned desk for a long moment so as to allow Jessica and Lauren to fawn over him before rolling his eyes at their fawning.

As Emowad reclined with classy ineptitude into his creaky seat, he had to yet once again adjust his tiny secret garden. While he was currently glad that his willie and the winkies were as small as they were, he wondered if he could buy some secret garden fertilizer to increase his fortitude. While he was very proud of his precious and angelic male virginity, it wasn’t like he had ever told Malice she couldn’t suck him off on a Sunday. That would have been very rude of him, and since he was still human during the early part of the century, well, last century – after a while it’s just the passage of time, he mournfully sighed sadly and with sadness – his first mama had instilled in him the importance and value of having manners.

Anyway, he redirected thought number 2,593 of that moment – being a vampire meant he could think lots of thoughts while he was thinking of thinking about other thoughts while his first thoughts were still thinking their own thoughts – and considered his vast, limitless, considerable, and quite a few resources. Money was no object. With the amount of money that Malice had helped him make, he could buy anything. Money, once again just in case you didn’t catch it the first time, was no object. Why, he could buy another new mini-jet to take him to that place he knew of in Argentina…

More students started filing in, and Emowad considered reading their minds so that he could be angsty about reading their minds, but chose to keep his shields up.

His shields, you may ask?

Yes, his shields.

SHIELDS.

Shields.

You see, several years ago during one of his escapes from Carlisle’s enforced “vegetarianism” Emowad had wandered down into the upper part of Louisiana and there he met this blonde lady who wasn’t a vampire but whose thoughts he couldn’t immediately read. The silly bint never did offer to suck him off, sadly, which was what he was wanting with her generous globe-shaped boobies (surely they were implants since natural boobs are not globe shaped, but he didn’t care: to his virginal penis but not ass, boobies were boobies) and delightful gap-toothed grin, but she did read a lot of books and had a Word of the Day calendar that really did impress him.

A lot.

He was so impressed by that Word of the Day calendar that he even refrained from drinking her sweet, delicious, fragrant, fern and ragweed scented blood even.

Even.

He ironically flipped his ironic scarf ironically in growing agitation (and willie) at the thought of her fern and ragweed scent then refocused thought number 4,567 as it tended to wander off and get lost in the warm, moist, fragrant, hot, talented mouth he’d never felt that belonged to the big globe-boobie’d blonde.

Anyway, he had made a point to bump into her (somewhat literally just to see her luscious, luxurious, somehow both perky AND enormous at-the-same-time tits jiggle), and after what he felt was a fine performance (even if he did have to hide his minirection behind a bottle of nail polish he’d happened to very fortunately and fortuitously spot {with his super-enhanced “I see better than you” vampire vision} just to the left of his right foot) he had invited her to sit down at the handy dandy kids’ table nearby and split a conveniently placed Jane Austen novel with him.

Three hours and twelve minutes later, the blonde had to don her red hooded cape and return with haste to her grandmother’s house with her collection of checked-out romances and dictionaries all neatly stowed in her basket.

As he had watched her drive away in her banana yellow rust bucket (that jerked and lurched in quite the frightening way), he had considered whether or not he really did, indeed, want to actually consider whether or not he really would might possibly could maybe meet with her at whatever a Merlotte’s was later that evening and night.

He hoped they served Fru Blood, which, although it hadn’t been invented yet by the ubiquitous Japanese, his better-than-yours vampire brain (along with Malice’s always-right-but-never-enough predictions had predicatively predicted) could already tell would be invented anyway because his vampire brain thought super-impressive (and better than yours) thoughts of such thinkable things, but since this weird little area that no one had ever heard of in upper Louisiana was a mythical magical and supernaturally supe’inclined crossroads of roadly roads (mostly unpaved) that crossed, they might just maybe could already have their somewhat literal paws on some anyway.

He hoped.

He also hoped that they had a microwave to heat it up in, but since the area was so back woods and hillbilly and not rich, he wasn’t sure if they would. Or if they even knew how to operate it or if they just pushed all the pretty little beepy buttons or.

Something.

He also also hoped that they would know to take the metal lid off, nuke it for just 15 or 30 or 45 seconds, although some fics recommend 60 seconds, then recap it and shake it up to get rid of any hot spots.

At the aforementioned pre-arranged time, Emowad pulled his 50 shades of thrusty, trusty, and quite dusty, silver gray Vulva into the greasy parking lot of an establishment that smelled of greasy grease and looked as if a strong wind would blow it down to the greasy ground.

Greasily.

He lolled around in the interior of his immaculate vehicle while he car danced to Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain”, and yes, he smirked smirkily. That song was about him about him about him…

Once the song ended and he removed the face of his super-expensive CD player/satellite feed/8 Track player (“Music is music no matter the century,” he often lectured a bored Demmett as said bored Demmett boredly flexed his massive yet boring wrists by lifting the house by one corner until MamaEsme would yell down with a few tsks and a tat and a threat to ground him even though he was only a few years younger than she but yet she somehow had the power to ground people only a few years younger than her caramel/butterscotch/lightly-burnt-toast-coated-with-Irish-butter color haired self), he exited his OLDER MODEL BUT STILL A VULVA grey, still all 50 shades of it, purr-mobile and, upon standing, had to once again adjust what there was of his male secret garden. (Editors/AN/whatevs note: He has to do this upon exiting any vehicle ever.) After once again straightening his skin-tight junk-squishing black emo-jeans and his ironic scarf once again, he raised his long, feminine piano-hands to reposition his perfectly-coiffed acorn ‘do – once again. (Really, guys, it’s like a mini-play just for this twat to exit a damn vehicle.) He reassured himself that the alien landing patch was still secured to the back of his skull (it had actually grown 1/4th of a 1/2 of a 128th of a percent since the last time he felt it up!), then re-intensely re-cuffed the sleeves of his close-fitting white button-up exactly 1.5 rolls each. Again.

(Hey, in his defense it’s a new yet identical shirt. The other one stunk of PUBLIC LIBRARY and DESPAIR!)

Once satisfied that his appearance was working for him (seriously, Emowad has issues…), he strode languidly yet unsteadily (gravel parking lots, you know, but it was still a very graceful, smooth, ethereal unsteadiness) toward the trunk of his car, being sure to caressingly stroke the lines of his Vulva along the way, until he remembered that the door to the beer and fried food pit of nasal torture and certain gastronomic distress was in the other direction.

Faking the need to examine the entirely empty, spotless, and smelling of new car smell trunk to save face rather than simply pivoting on his slightly but undetectably raised heels like any normal pathetic non-vampire mortal plain person would do, Emowad chose instead to duck down and wipe the dust off his “NOTAVAMP” personal and individualized lighted car tag.

♣

♣

♣

**A/N:  And I bet you were scared it’d involve large sea mammals…  Ok, so, what’d ja think?  I have more in mind but I don’t have to post it if you didn’t like this, so…s’up to you lovely readers!**

♣

♣

♣

♣

♣

♣

♣

♣