i have a lot of writing projects i've been sitting on. which is nothing strange (as i'm sure other writers can relate to), however a lot of these fics will never be finished. 99% of my writing, and specifically my fanfictions, are all self-indulgent. meaning they were created at the height of my obsessive [blank] obsession. and i've never liked just... holding them, indefinitely unfinished. so i want to put them out there and give other people the opportunity to make something cool with them. i am essentially releasing these fics into the public domain. you could replace the characters, change scenic details, etc etc. or you could try and write them as i was trying to. do whatever you want, i'm not a cop.
if you do end up using one of these as a template for a fic and want it linked on this page, drop a comment on my neocities wall with a url and ill put it under the BRAND NEW REFURBISHED FICS section on the sidebar :3
DISCLAIMER
these fics are... old. and self-indulgent (at least for the time). and terribly written. i was a different person in these i swear. read ahead with caution.
Neckties - Aldo Raine/GN!Reader [09.10.22] DRAFT
"Baby?" You crawled inside his tent. Aldo sat on his makeshift bed, with a handheld mirror in his hand. His chin was tilted upwards slightly, and his other hand was tracing the scar featheraround his neck. It was rather faded— Well, more faded than it had been when you two had first met.
"Hey darling," he said softly in his southern drawl.
"What're you doing?" You asked, moreso a
"Nothin'," he shut the mirror, and sighed. "Just rememberin', y'know?
"Mmm." You crawled into Aldo's lap; he wrapped his arms around your midsection, just under your chest
"What about you?" He gave you a kiss on your cheek. "How're you doing?
"Tired." You answered simply
"Yeah?
"Yeah," you looked up at him. "Killing Nazis is hard work
Aldo laughed, and gave you a kiss
"Ain't that the truth.
You nodded, cuddling into him closer
"Don't worry, honey, the Nazi killing's all done for today. Now you just gotta deal with me." He smirked
"Gladly," you gave Aldo a quick kiss, but as you pulled away he kissed you again. Deeper, as if the slight peck had activated something in him.
Khrushchevska - Commie (Centricide)/Reader [17.07.22] DRAFT ⚠ Sexual Content
DISCLAIMER FROM 2025: this one is especially embarrasing because it was written in the height of my JREG centricide phase, but alas... this is the archives. i already gave the warning but again, massive warning for terrible content ahead.
THE FIRST DRAFT
tags: touch starved, friends to lovers, healing from trauma
старый друг = old friend
моя любовЬ = my love
блядЬ = fuck
---
The evening sun touched the horizon of downtown Stalingrad. Long shadows scattered the streets, covering the sidewalks in gray. It was the time of day when the colors of the sky changed minute by minute, and the only artels open were
Inside of your apartment, the sunlight did little but provide warmth for your houseplants during the cold days, and ambient light for reading. It also, however, signaled the end of the day. So, you sat at your dinner table (which was nothing more than a glorified coffee table). The newspaper still sat where you left it— under the coffee you'd made before work. You hadn't bothered reading it then, but there wasn't much else to do.
You slid the cup off and read the headline.
'Правда,'
'SUNDAY — 5 March 1950'
'STALIN TRAVELS GETTING LONGER EACH YEAR: WHAT COULD IT MEAN?
You chuckled
In all honesty you should've been upset that the leader of this country was spending more time overseas having extravagant vacations. Who knows? Maybe Stalingrad would get lucky, a day where Stalin would leave and never return
Stalingrad
No, in your heart it was still Tsaritsyn. The city was renamed far before your time. It didn't matter, though. It was the thought of it
----------
"God, it's been so long." You sighed. "You know, this place really hasn't changed at all."
Silence hung in the air. You scolded yourself internally.
"I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."
"No, it's- it's okay дорогой, it's just... It's been a long time since I'd thought of it."
He took a drink, different than the ones he'd had all night. It was, personal. The tone shifted; it wasn't just something to do in between friendly conversation, it was a distraction. It was his turn to study the horizon, although by now the sun had finally set and all he could make out were the outlines of the trees in the distance.
"Are you okay Commie?" You asked.
"Remember when we were teenagers?" He took a sip from his drink. "Sneaking away from home in the middle of the night, just to come here?"
"Like it was yesterday," you chuckled lightly.
"Nothing in our minds but young idealism, right my friend?"
"Yep. I miss it sometimes. A lot, actually." You took a drink. "It was always my favorite, you know... Spending all those nights here with you."
"да, me too."
Commie snaked an arm around your shoulders, and pulled you into his side. He looked at you, but you didn't look back; seemingly occupied with the dusk settling on the horizon— In reality, you were trying not to [kiss him, more detailed]
"Are you okay?" Commie asked.
"Huh?" You blinked up at him. "Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm okay."
A playful grin spread across his face.
"Really?" He asked. "You seem so tense [pet name]. Don't tell me it's been that long."
"No, I-I'm sure. It's nothing, really."
You avoided his eyes, not a particularly convincing mannerism
"It's okay, I understand."
"Understand what?"
"Nothing, nothing, don't worry about it [pet name],"
"Telling me not to worry is only going to make me worry more,"
"Just forget, [name], honest."
"I don't think I can at this point."
"Well." He took a drink. "If I recall, some of our nights here were... less than innocent."
You paused.
Commie let out a laugh
------------------
"My [name], I wish you could see your face right now."
"Ah, yeah, I didn't really get a chance to make myself presentable." You laughed.
---"What is this?"
Commie turned around, about to ask what you were talking about, when the color drained from his face; you held a piece of cardstock, no bigger than an index card (literally had to google when these were invented), that read ‘Inquiry’ in your hand. His name, date of birth, age— everything, written in his beautiful Russian cursive.
"It's not..." He trailed off.
"Not what, huh? Not a fucking conscription notice?" You slammed the card on the table.
[something descriptive about commies face; upset/shocked/guilt
"моя любовЬ, I—"
"No." You cut him off. "Don’t, don’t touch me, don’t you dare call me that right now."
Commie took a step back, .
"I know you are upset, and you have every right, but—"
"When?"
"What..."
"When do you leave?" You asked again.
Commie looked at the ground, avoiding your gaze.
"Tomorrow..." he muttered, almost inaudibly.
You froze; you could feel your heart start to pound. It was getting harder to breathe.
"Tomorrow?" The word tried settling on your tongue, but
.
.
.
"I don't want you to go," you choked, a final pathetic attempt at keeping him there.
"I know, [pet name], I know."
"Come here, дорогой."
He pulled you into a hug, and held you tightly. You could hear his ragged breathing-- He held in his emotions, but you could sense him starting to break.
---
"I-I'm sorry," he cried; Repeating it under his breath, not able to let it (or you) go.
"Hey, hey, hey" you held the sides of his face, gently, holding his head up to look at you. "It wasn't your fault Commie, okay? It was never your fault."
"Fuck, come here," you hugged him again.
Tension had finally snapped after all of these years; emotions poured over and you kissed Commie. It wasn't slow or gentle, but passionate and frantic-- As if you were both afraid that you'd lose each other all over again. You straddled his lap, letting his hands wander over your body with haste. They climbed under your shirt and up your sides
Forgetting You But Not The Time - Jesus of Suburbia/Whatsername [08.07.22] DRAFT ⚠ Bigotry, Domestic Dispute
SUBURBIA --- 2004
"Jesus!" A series of knocks emitted from the door, before it opened.
"You know, most people would wait until they're invited in to open the door mom." Jesus said, smugly.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen--- Bud's gonna be over in 10 minutes, go set the table."
"Oh boy, I'm so excited." He feigned excitement.
"Jesus, please don't be like this when he comes over."
Jesus opened the door, and in front of him stood a [word for disgusting] man. He was husky, with a white wife beater that barely held together, not even bothered to be cleaned. His facial hair was patchy. He looked exactly how you'd expect someone named Bud to be.
"Hello [name], welcome. Jesus, say hello" His mother said.
"Hi," he said simply. He was trying to hold in his disgusted look.
"You didn't tell me he was queer," he said.
"Oh, uh he um he isn't" she quickly rushed, Jesus rolled his eyes.
"So, are you gonna let me in?" he scoffed.
"Oh, yes, of course! Come in." She opened the door wider.
Jesus sat at the dinner table, with the man eyeing him the entire time.
"So, what do you do for fun?" Jesus' mother asked.
"I like hunting," he said. "Really love collecting that fur and whatnot.
"Wow, what a great hobby," Jesus said sarcastically, although [name] didn't pick up on it.
"What about you? You look like you write, or something gay like that."
"I play guitar," Jesus gritted his teeth.
"Even worse," he laughed loudly in Jesus face.
"What's your name kid?"
"Jesus."
"Haha, what, did your mom think you'd be the messiah?" He laughed, far too loudy, at his own joke.
"You're a funny guy," Jesus said dryly.
"You got an attitude on you, boy.
"Dinners served!" Jesus' mother interrupted.
"Finally," he said. "I'm starving."
"So where do you work?" she asked him.
"My parents own a frozen food company, I'm the chief executive officer.
"Oh, how interesting. Isn't that interesting Jesus?"
"Yeah, sure."
[name] was silent, so Jesus' mom talked.
"Well, I've been working at the gas station down the road recently. Whatever job's I can find, you know how it is."
"Yeah, Clinton ruined the job market. Fucking liberals."
"Well if this all goes well then maybe your parents will hire me at their frozen food factory!" Jesus' mom laughed, but the guy was silent (likely because he didn't get it).
Jesus didn't know, but he did know that marrying this man was never going to work, even if it was just for money. Regardless, he tried maintaining his anger if only just for tonight. He started eating when politics was brought up. He only noticed because he saw [name's] face get bright red as he ranted about anyone and everyone.
"Do you really think that my mother thinks like you. She obviously is doing this to try and impress you."
"'Scuse me?"
"Do you actually think my mother would agree with anything you said?"
"Jesus, be quiet."
"No, seriously. I've kept quite the whole fucking time, but fuck you're a fucking asshole. I wouldn't want you within 100 miles of a school, much less standing by my mom at an alter. I don't care if she was doing this for money. I can't let her be treated like shit on the first fucking date she's spent with you. You definitely seem like the beating type, you're wearing a fucking wife beater for fucks sake.
"Jesus. Room. Now."
"No, mother, let me talk. You're a fucking piece of shit. I hope you know that she will never like you. So get that through your skull."
"You know what, I don't have to take this shit. Fuck you, faggot." He left for the door.
"Wait, [name] please, please we can sort his out."
It didn't matter, he shut the door on Jesus' mothers face.
"Are you fucking serious, Jesus?"
"Mom, I couldn't let you marry that guy, money or not."
===
"Jesus, you get the FUCK back here right now."
The voice shouted from behind him. That voice; his mother's voice.
"I'm not kidding, come here."
She'd shouted towards him again. It'd been happening for months now. One way or another, they'd end up in a fight. Week after week, like a broken record.
He sighed, and turned back around to face his mother.
"What, mom? What do you want me to say?" Jesus asked.
"I don't know, how about a sorry to start?!" She spat.
"A fucking SORRY?" Jesus scoffed, "You want me to say sorry to the prick who's wearing the 'White Pride' shirt?"
"I asked you, I told you before he showed up not to ruin this..." She continued on, as if what he said hadn't even registered in her mind. "And look what you fucking did."
"What I did? What, are we not gonna talk about about what he did?! The shit that he said?!"
His mother wasn't talking anymore, simply burying her face in her hands.
"No, but my bad," he feigned guilt. "I'll go suck him off, why don't I! I mean it's like he said, I'm the faggot of the house."
"You know why we needed him here, and you—"
"I could've done a lot fucking worse to that guy." Jesus interrupted. "You're lucky we can't afford a lawyer, or that hicks teeth would be all over the kitchen."
"You know," she shouted, "It's real easy to call me the bad guy when I'm the one who pays your fucking rent. Who puts clothes on your fucking back."
"Oh would you look at that! The bare fucking minimum. Do you want your 'Mother of the Year' award now or later?" He shouted, sarcasm laced in his anger.
There was silence; tense, deafening silence.
"You don't understand how hard having you as my son is, Jesus."
She stood up, quick enough to knock the dining chair backwards against the wall.
"Fuck you," His mother leaned close to Jesus' face before she stormed away to her room and slammed the door, hard enough to knock a framed photo off of the wall. Like a teenager.
Jesus wept.