#og fanfic

[onlysushicat]

writing an idea because I tried drawing it on my phone but it was lame af

Long background setting for a simple Davekat drawing: Karkat gets a wriggling day party, at maybe Rose's or Jade's house because they could be the biggest, with every 🎉friend🎉 he has. AU where everyone gets (kinda) along and all the people are alive etc etc

It starts calm but slowly turns into a mess as midnight passes with everyone drunk or passed out in some room, some making out some just trying to stay awake looking out for each other.

Karkat is sober even tho everyone tried to get him drunk, he just kept drinking water after each shot. So after some dancing and eating goes out to look for Dave who was missing since 2hours ago. But then Dave is the one appearing out of nowhere, looking the opposite of sober.

Karkat: Ugh you finally decided to come back, where have you been, and your shades?? Your hair is a mess and your clothes are all fucked up

Dave: yeah i mean, its a party its supposed to be fucked up in a way. my shades i think broke and fell down some hole when i wrestled with Jake some time ago, dude is built like a tower. And my bro decided we end in a truce even tho I was the one winning for sure

Dave: man you look so much like my boyfriend did u know that

Karkat: Excuse me? Dave Its me, I'm Karkat

Dave: you even share the same name, thats rad. you should meet him someday i can take you home with me, but he would get soooooo jealous seeing you 'cause youre such a cutie

Karkat:

Dave: liiike, your nails and fangs could make me cry tears of joy just from imagining the things those could do. even your horns are shining tonight, did you polish them???? thats awesome dude

Karkat:

Karkat: Last time I had to wait half an hour just for you to say you liked my laugh without looking away from my face, youre unbelievable.

Dave: have you seen Roxy? we can both search for them. they said i would have a drink made from them anytime i wanted and im feeling so thristy for some liquour rightnow

Karkat: Ok I can take you with them but after that youre coming home with me so you can rest. This party is giving me fucking migraines.

Dave: dude i was joking about taking u home, im loyal breaking no promises. sorry but i wont change my man for anyone

Dave: unless we get permission from the man himself

Karkat: Can we please go home now????

Dave: yeah sure whatevs

The walking back to their house was calm, Karkat helping Dave a little by holding him from his arm while he kept talking about the things he did at the party. Karkat just nodded because his head hurted like hell, in his head he tried to understand why he had so many people over instead of doing something more chill.

The sun was gonna rise soon but they both went to sleep anyways, Dave in the same outfit he wore the whole night and Karkat changed his pants only for something more comfortable.

* Snore, mimimi *

[amplifyme]

Dance Without Sleeping, Chapter 2 - Flesh and Bone

Mulder stands before me now, hands on his hips, not saying a word. I venture a glance at him and find him looking upward, apparently fascinated by the water-stained tiles of the ceiling. In one quick movement he pulls the empty chair from the other side of the table and sets it next to mine, straddling it as he sits, folding his arms on the back. He clears his throat.

"How long since the last one?"

"I don't know." I cannot look at him. "A week, maybe."

"Maybe?" He's scared and angry. "How long?"

Why do I feel like a child about to be chewed out for some infraction?

"I don't know, okay? I don't write it down every time I get a nosebleed, Mulder!"

"Well, you should. Documentation, Agent Scully."

I lift my eyes to his and I know how cold they must look to him. "I don't need a lecture. If you want to do something useful, you can find a bathroom and bring me a wet paper towel or something. I'd like to get cleaned up before I leave this room." 

I drop my eyes and start plucking at my blouse. There is a vivid red stain that I know will never come out. Another casualty.

Mulder stands and with one hand lifts the chair so he can slam it back down hard enough to make a satisfying noise. The glass in the door rattles as he steps out and closes it more forcefully than is necessary. At least he didn't try to put his fist through the wall. I've seen him do that a time or two.

I wait for his return, absently twisting the bloodstained handkerchief in my hands before I use it to ineffectively wipe the spots of blood from the file before me. I know that I should be more concerned than I am by the amount of blood, but all I can think about is the flash of real anger I saw in Mulder. I'm relieved by it. It means he's coming back to me, returning to the whole. It's a necessary step in his grieving process and I'm glad to see it.

He comes back in with a warm, damp wad of paper towels and silently hands it to me, turning away and looking at anything but me while I swab it over my mouth and nose and then wipe at my fingers. I don't even try to erase the stains on my blouse and blazer. The blazer is black so I needn't worry about drawing attention to myself before we can make it back to the motel. Properly buttoned, it should hide the stain on the blouse. I reach for my purse and the compact within and realize it's in the trunk of the rental car. I push back from the table and stand, testing my legs before I step away. The dizziness is gone.

"Mulder, I don't have my mirror. Did I get it all?"

He turns back to me, arms folded protectively across his chest. His eyes move over my face. "There's still some right above..." He shakes his head and holds out a hand, stepping towards me.

I relinquish the makeshift washcloth and study his face as he brings it against a spot just above my lips. His eyes are fathomless pools of gray. There is a muscle twitching in his tightly clenched jaw. He dabs gently at my skin, two fingers tucked inside the wad. Standing here, watching him do this, feeling it, reminds me of the way my father would clean me up after I'd made a mess of myself eating ice cream.

Mulder drops his hand and steps back, taking another look. "Good as new," he declares as he tosses the paper towels on the table.

I can't help but smile. He returns it, albeit sadly.

"If only it was that easy," I tell him.

"Yeah." He begins to gather our things together, pausing only for a second before he closes and picks up the file from the table. He shoves it all into my briefcase and reaches for my coat. “C'mon, Scully. Let's get outta here." (x)

[heywriters]

pls write oc x canon character fiction I don't understand how that's cringe or why cringe is even a word we've affixed to fanfic in the first place

also sometimes the canon character needs a perfect partner written for them bc canon refuses to so yes write away

[happypeachsludgeflower]

Shen Yuan rewrote PIDW ridiculously well with beautiful prose and detailed characterization and well crafted plot arcs as a fanfiction just to prove that it could be well written and Airplane is obviously just a sellout hack who couldn’t write himself out of a paper bag and obviously Shen Yuan only did it to prove a point because he’s petty like that and he absolutely does not and never will love the story enough to write 999k+ words about it at all no sir no how no way HE’S JUST PETTY DAMMIT!!

[asterefflores]

[mushlooms]

qimir is so in love with osha it makes him look silly. yes he is a criminal, murderer, arsonist, torturer, heretic, thief, liar, tax evader (…) but that’s his pookie!

[brewed-pangolin]

MDNI 18+

Imagine being woken up by Captain MacTavish's strong arms around your waist.

The sun had barely crested over the horizon. A soft bluish red glow emanated from behind the curtain, yet all you could feel was his vice like grip and the weight of his muscular leg over the flesh of your thigh.

And a very prominent, however languid jab of his hardened length against the small of your back ad he undulated his hips against your still sleeping form.

"John," you managed finally on a groggy whimper. Sleep loosening its tight hold on your psyche as the feel of him rubbing his cock against your back took hold.

"C'mon, love." His breath, hot and despondent, ran like a gentle stream against the back of your neck.

Familiar. Vulnerable. Cleansing.

And you didn't have to ask. You knew by the subtle quiver in his voice what the Captain was so desperately pining for.

"John. It's not even 6am."

"Aye. I know. Just let me stick it in for a while, yeah?"

His calloused hand traversed the flesh of your pelvis, pressing into the curve of your hip to assist in promiscuous provocation. Lifting your leg just enough as he positioned himself against your backside and leisurely slid himself into your heat.

You breathed deeply the moment you felt him stretch within your silken walls. Expelling a quiet murmur of his name, his hand splaying out over the flesh of your abdomen until he was fully seated within your tightness of your cunt.

"Tha's it, m'lass. Jus' let me sit 'ere a while."

His accent always ran thicker when he was lost in the feel of you wrapped around him.

His well maintained and muscular physique enveloping the entirety of your back. Draping over you like a weighted blanket while he inserted the essence of himself into the depths of your soul.

He inhaled the fine fragrance of your sleep cloaked scent. Night time jasmine with a hint of fresh cotton. Pulling a soft growl from his depths as you felt him pulse against the walls of your soaking core. Clenching around him. A barely audible moan rolling over your lips as he hovered his mouth over the nape of your neck.

"Don't move, lass. Cannae take it when ya clench 'round me like tha'."

You obliged, reluctantly. Easing your mind. Blanking out all thoughts and letting him bask in the warmth and silken hug that only your divine pussy could provide.

"You're gonna have to make up for waking me up, John."

"Aye? An' how would ya like me to do tha?"

You replied with a smooth buck of your hips into him. Your ass pressing into his pelvis, tugging a muffled groan thar reverberates within the confines of his throat.

"Yer a little minx, y'know tha'?"

"You're the one that started this, Captain. Are you going to finish it, or am I going to have to take command?"

His hands pressed firmly into the divots of your hips in response to your taunting quip. Burying himself deeper into your tight femininity, asserting his reprimand while the soothing baritone of his voice echoed against the shell of your ear.

"Keep it up, lass. An' I'll show you just how voracious my command can be."

I'm horny for the Captain, okay?

Captain MacTavish Masterlist

[skylerskyhigh]

Cale stares at the table with shaking eyes. His expression is one of shock and dread, with the gaze of someone whose world is tilting on its side.  "I'm sure you both understand it by now. Rok Soo’s life is tied to Cale's." The God of Life leans closer toward Cale's face. His green eyes glowed ominously as he met Cale's trembling eyes.  "So you can't die unless you want to kill your precious hyung."

[eowynstwin]

disquiet comfort

previous - neighbors - next

John hears you through the walls. cw: accidental voyeurism, implied masturbation

John hears the creak of your bed springs the next morning.

He’s not surprised by it—you’re not the first neighbor he’s had, only the first he’s met. He knows how thin the walls are now, and has long passed the point of finding it annoying. He listens as the sound of your taps coming on filters through drywall and insulation at a low hum, thinks he can hear the buzz of an electric toothbrush. He wonders if you can hear his razor going as he trims his mustache.

It feels nice to have this odd company, he thinks. The two of you, going through the same motions. It strikes an old, abandoned chord—he hasn’t woken up with anyone in a long, long time.

He puts his razor down and squashes the thought flat. His neighbor—his kind, pretty neighbor—does not need him to think like that. Even if your eyes had traveled the length and breadth of his body before making it to his face.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, giving himself a flat look. He isn’t used to civilian life. Answering the door shirtless had probably been some sort of faux pas. If you’d been looking, you’d probably been more disconcerted than anything else. That’s the long and short of it, he tells himself, because there’s no room for anything else.

John is never very good at being home. The things that keep him alive out there—hyperawareness, sharply defined mission parameters, strict operational regimens—are, at home, needs that go unmet. Liverpool is not a popular terrorist hotbed he needs to pay attention to. He isn’t going to die if he forgets to buy milk. And he can only go to the gym so often.

But he needs something to do, or he’s going to go crazy.

So today he does on leave what he dreams of in the field: he has his first of two showers for the day, makes himself breakfast in his own kitchen, and turns on the telly for the noise. It’s some dumb morning show, with too-clean hosts shilling for weird kitchen tools. Easy to ignore.

Inevitably, he thinks about Mexico. About Shepherd. About Chicago, and Hassan, and Laswell telling him he needs to get some goddamn rest before he kills himself trying to stop a war that isn’t even happening.

“Yet,” he’d ground out.

She’d just stared at him with dagger-sharp eyes and told him to go home.

John bites into his toast harder than a grown man told to take a fucking vacation should, and turns up the volume.

Three soft, polite taps sound on the wall.

John blinks. Remembers the previous morning, what he’d said to you. The remote is in his hand before he thinks about it, the mute button depressed beneath a quick thumb.

The quiet is like the end of a gunfight. Unsteady.

He waits. He doesn’t know what for. The silence stretches. He notices a shaft of sunlight coming through his window, little motes of dust dancing in the air, as he looks around his own flat for some reason. It’s habit—surveying a battlefield after it’s been passed over by violence.

He looks back to the space above the TV. Rises carefully from his seat. Goes over to the wall.

Raps his knuckles twice against it. All good?

Immediately there are two taps in response. Yes, thanks! And the break of the still silence is like a soap bubble popping. John breathes, and then realizes he hadn’t been.

There are no further knocks. It disappoints him, but he does not expect them. It’s just a friendly interaction between neighbors.

It doesn’t matter. It feels like something has unknotted in his chest.

He feels almost like a voyeur as the day goes on. He hears when you work in your kitchen, notes the muffled clang of a pan on the stove. He hears your dishwasher run later, and briefly wonders at the utility of using it for so few dishes.

You’re on the phone at one point, but he can’t make out the conversation. He only half-tries to, but the even the indistinct, low sound of your voice is comforting. It reminds him of late nights in the barracks, listening to bunk mates talk while trying not bother anyone else. The closest to domestic comfort John has really ever had.

You turn music on at one point, something soulful and a little moody. John thinks it might be Marvin Gaye, but he’s not sure. The urge to knock on your door and ask is a strong one, but he doesn’t think you need a lonely old soldier bothering you in the middle of your day. At least, not any more than he already has. And before he can figure it out for himself, he hears you exclaim “Oh, shit!” and the volume immediately drops.

He has to smile at that. It’s a rare luxury for him to experience these days, that kind of consideration.

Something in his chest gives a little jump when he hears two knocks on his wall again. Sorry, he thinks you’re saying.

He knocks twice back. All good.

He should not feel so invigorated by this exchange.

You leave the house a little after noon—he hears your door open and close, and the jingle of keys followed by footsteps quickly retreating. Then, your noise is gone.

John and silence do not go well together. Too quickly, the quiet closes in, and John thinks if he stays in his own home a minute longer he’ll suffocate from it—so he takes your cue, and leaves. He isn’t really sure what to do, but he has to do it anywhere else.

He gets home after you do, sore from the weight racks and full on pub food and a few pints. The sky is dark and the sidewalks are illuminated in yellow lamplight, and the air hums with the wind of cars driving in the distance. He sees your window lit up bright and warm, and the relief it fills him with is disproportionate to how anyone should feel knowing that their neighbor is home.

Where did you go during the day, he finds himself wondering? What are you making for dinner? What will you do once you’ve eaten?

John realizes he’s standing there staring at your window, and scowls at himself. He’s a fucking creep, that’s what he is. A pretty neighbor talks to him once, fucking welcomes him home like any nice person would, and suddenly he’s pining like a stupid little schoolboy.

He goes inside. Hears you in your kitchen again and convinces himself he’s ignoring it. Tries to find something to stay awake with. Has one cigar more than he’d planned for the day, and thinks at least he’ll get to go out and get more sooner—something to do with the wealth of time he didn’t ask to receive.

He’s already in bed, second shower finished, when he hears activity on the other side of the wall. He hadn’t really been falling asleep, but he’s wide awake now, and feeling like a pervert as he listens to your bath come on.

He hasn’t gone to bed with anyone in a long time, either.

John lays there in the dark, eyes open, and tries to ignore how easy it is to breathe as the water runs muffled only a few feet away. He doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he can hear again the tiny buzz of a toothbrush a little after the flow shuts off. He listens to the creak of your bed and does not think about how warm your skin must be, how softly the sheets must fall around your body.

He closes his eyes. He tries to sleep. He isn’t thinking about listening to your breathing beside him. He isn’t drifting off imagining the smell of your hair on his pillow…

He hears a tiny buzz again. Brushing your teeth a second time? No, it’s closer now…

Oh. OH.

John’s eyes fly open. Your bed creaks again. He is rigid under the covers, every muscle tensed. He breathes consciously, testing the limits of his diaphragm, counting to three between each inhale and exhale. He is desperate that his pulse remain even, that his blood refrain from rushing through his ears and other parts.

A small sound. Breathy. Low.

John slaps his hand against his thigh before it can move any further inward. He curls his fingers around the hem of his briefs, grips the fabric as if it’s going to save his damn life. Clenches his other hand into a fist, digs his nails into his palm.

What expression is on your face? What is the scent of your toothpaste on your breath?

What angle are you holding that vibrator at?

You give a low moan again.

His breath shallows out. John considers giving the wall a tap but dismisses the option immediately and ruthlessly. He will take his secret audience to the fucking grave. And he’d shoot himself before denying you this—and, he thinks shamefully, denying himself this, too.

He should get up. He should go into his living room and give you privacy. Your bed creaks again. He remembers his own mattress tends to the same disruption. He can’t move, because it would effect the same outcome as a knock—you’d know exactly how thin the walls are, know that he’s right there and that he’s only leaving after he’s already gotten an earful.

Another sound, higher. John isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore. What did your skin feel like? Would his fingers fit you better than that toy? Would his cock?

He thinks he feels a nail break skin. He tries to think of anything other than the throb of blood and heat between his legs, between your legs.

You give a sudden, high-pitched cry, one that abruptly cuts off.

John knows you’ve buried your face in your pillow to quiet yourself. His entire body twinges with the disappointment of it. He breathes so lowly as to be silent, to give space to your noise, and waits.

But the buzzing stops. Your bed shifts again, and then all is silent.

Wait. What?

Was that it?

The silence stretches. John does not move. That was it.

John does not think about how much longer he could’ve made that last. He does not think about teasing you with his hands, his lips, his tongue. Does not picture your legs hung up high on his hips.

His cock aches. He ignores it.

The gym tomorrow. And then a run. Maybe a drive to the coast, and a dip in the cold ocean.

It wouldn’t be enough, but it had to be something. John isn’t going to get a minute of sleep, and he’s going to be hearing that cut-off moan for a long, long time.

[thel0llip0p]

behold baby galahad!

[darth-mortem]

Here is a sad snippet that @amikoroyaiart masterpiece inspired me to do. 636 words.

“Talk to me, Ghost".

Riley didn’t answer. It seemed as if he hadn't heard the words spoken to him at all over the noise of the downpour and the waves rolling over the large stones at the shore. They stood on the pier, and the sharp, cold wind blew in relentless gusts, penetrating their equipment, clothing, and skin, making their bodies freeze to the bone.

Soap didn't call out to Ghost again. He knew that on days like this, when the terrible shadows of the past surround Simon and bind his soul with icy chains, he needed time to return to reality. MacTavish just reached out, lightly touching Riley's shoulder, and then lit a cigarette, covering it from the rain. A minute passed, then another, and then Ghost moved and slowly turned his head toward Soap.

“What about?” He asked vaguely, as if the question had been asked of him only a second ago.

“I dinnae know.” Johnny shrugged and smiled. “Let's talk about cinema! Do you like action movies?”

“No.” Simon shook his head and lit up a cigarette too. “I have enough ‘action movies’ in my life.”

“Then what?” Soap tilted his head in interest.

Ghost was silent, looking off into the distance, where the cold, foggy sea merged with the equally cold, leaden sky. MacTavish touched his shoulder again and squeezed it lightly, letting him know that he could speak frankly and not be afraid of ridicule or condemnation.

“I like movies about animals.” Simon finally answered. “Only those with a good ending.”

Johnny smiled gently, realizing once again that despite all the suffering, there was a kind heart underneath the frightening image of Ghost.

“Ye know, I like them too.” Soap said. “Dinnae tell anyone, but when I watched ‘Lassie’, I cried like a baby, and I was fifteen years old.”

Ghost looked at him warily at first, but then, realizing that Johnny wasn't mocking him, he took off his rain-dripping sunglasses and smiled weakly under his balaclava. Soap realized this when he saw Riley’s sad blue eyes squint.

“I heard there was a movie about whales recently.” Simon said that and was silent for a few seconds, remembering the title. “It's called ‘The Big Miracle’. Maybe we can watch it together when we have a leave.”

“I'd love to!” Soap smiled again and put his arm around Ghost's shoulders. “Now, can we go inside? Ye know there's no need to stand guard ‘ere. And I think thir's some Bourbon left in the kitchen.”

Simon nodded, and they walked down the pier to the small cabin that 141 used as his safehouse.

***

“Talk to me, Ghost.”

Riley didn’t answer. He would never answer again: his life taken by a traitorous bullet, his body burned in hellish flames, and his scarred and maimed soul... MacTavish didn’t know what had happened to it. He had once believed in God as a child, but then he saw so much evil that he could no longer. However, he hoped that if there is a heaven, Simon is there now, next to his mother, brother, and little nephew Joseph; that his scars are gone, his old wounds no longer hurt; and that he doesn’t need his skull balaclava. Also, Johnny secretly hoped that when his life was cut short by a bullet, a knife, or maybe a grenade, he too would be in that wonderful place, next to Simon, whom he loved with all his heart and continued to love no matter what.

A heavy hand rested on MacTavish's shoulder, and he flinched in surprise, though he knew it could only be Captain Price.

“Time to go, son.” He said, staying a little behind Johnny. “Aye.” Soap nodded, quickly ran his sleeve over his face, wiping away his tears, and they walked together to the helicopter.

[onlysushicat]

cronkri request

this brings memories

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

I've been utterly fascinated by Good (better? nicer?) Chase design by @lizard-color4 from this post and desperately wanted to know more. Who's this man? What's his story? Why is his hand bandaged? Why is his fashion taste is so much better than Original Chase? And why the hell does his hug looks so nice??

so i um, decided to explore his design a little ;D

also bonus+ sorta?? continuation / my take on the after hug because i really craved more of that

bonus++ a silly doodle of my first attempt on his design because why not

[heywriters]

The Fine Line Between Fan Art, Fan Fiction, and Finding Yourself Sued

This whole article is worth a read for fan creators, especially those of you trying to make an honest buck off your work.

(excerpt below)

How Do You Avoid a Lawsuit? Due to the popularity of fan fiction and fan art, many content owners have begun proactively providing guidelines to their fanbase. Wizards of the Coast (Dungeons & Dragons),[6] CBS and Paramount Pictures (Star Trek),[7] and EPIC Games[8] have all developed policies to inform fans of what they can and cannot do legally. Additionally, usually as long as the fan content is non-commercial, it is not a problem with copyright holders. Regardless, unless the work is completely original, fans should be careful about their creations.

Additionally, try to be smarter than this guy who attempted to sue Amazon for the rights to Lord of the Rings.

[justsomecouscous]

og write/creator: yeah these two ppl absolutely hate each other, just like pure loathing, that's their arch nemesis right there and they've been actively trying to kill each other since they met like they just genuinely hate each other so much-

A sixteen year old girl with daddy issues and a new hyper fixation: no for much longer they won't :)

[asterefflores]

Random future event that may or may not change in the fanfic later but my hand just felt like it had to draw this one for some reason or it wouldn't rest at all 🤌🏻