The 5 Greatest Pieces Of Fanfiction Ever Written

5 Re-Catching Fire

Many fanfic writers begin their career with a blockbuster franchise. When a story is absolutely everywhere, you can't help but become familiar with it. And when the fanfic community for it is massive, you don't feel weird adding your voice to the mix. With the final Hunger Games movie on the horizon, this seemed like the perfect way to get my feet wet.

"I can't believe I have to fight in the Hunger Games again," I, Katniss Everdeen, thought to myself as I punched District 1 Tribute Chadwick Steelele in the face.

"I can't believe we have to fight in the Hunger Games again!" said Peeta as he rubbed a bunch of dumb mud on his face instead of helping me.

"Ow, my face!" shouted Chadwick. He angrily pulled away from me and pulled a knife on me. I had just enough time to pout at this turn of events before one of the Capitol's falcon-wolf-snake hybrids sleaped (slither-leaped) out of the jungle, which happened to be on fire, and devoured him. The Falolake then turned its attention to us, but before it could unleash its talon teeth tongue, an arrow embedded itself in its head and it died.

"That was close!" said Peeta. "But where did that arrow come from?" he asked as he put a bunch of tree branches in his hair like a stupid idiot.

That's what I wanted to know. "That's what I want to know," I said. I got my answer when another tribute dropped down from out of an acid-spitting tree in front of us. "Who are you?" I demanded.

"I'm Marc Hall from District 14" he said in a strong, masculine voice.

"There's no District 14!" said Peeta.

"Is too. It's a super-secret District. We manufacture lava-proof surfboards and guitars that are also flamethrowers."

I wondered if all the guys from District 14 were as attractive as this one. "What are you doing here? And how come you're as good with a bow as me?"

"Our mutual interest in a laughably outdated weapon is one of the reasons I'm here. As you know, your rebellion failed and President Snow punished you with Hunger Games 76: The Punishment. I'm here to bust you out so we can re-rebel."

"Re-rebel? Are you cray-crazy?" asked Peeta.

"Maybe I am, Peeta. Or maybe you're a coward. Why don't we find out? By the way, I have a message from Gale." Marc pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and read it. "Katniss, it's Gale. I've decided that you could do better than me, and also I'm into dudes now. Peeta, do you want to touch each other's butts while Katniss finds a new man? P.S. Let's do this rebellion thing. District 14 has lasers, and they're rad."

"Lasers? Do they come in bow form?" I asked.

"Yes, somehow," Marc answered. "I'd be happy to give you private lessons ..."

I hoped the lessons involved looking at his butt. "Then I guess it's time to teach the Abominable President Snowjerk a lesson he'll never forget, once and for all." I heard the cry of several Falolakes on the horizon and raised my bow. "With extreme prejudice."

The crossover is a more advanced form of fanfic. It's difficult to provide a believable explanation for the fusion of two disparate franchises, and it's even harder to keep every character's personalities and motivations believable when they're faced with such a fundamental upheaval of their world. When done well it's ingenious, but otherwise it's sheer lunacy. Which descriptor applies to my idea that Westeros existed a long time ago on a planet in a galaxy far, far away? Judge for yourself.

Luke Skywalker stabbed his lightsaber through the Stormlannister's face, but the soldiers of Darth Tywin just kept coming. "Robb!" he shouted to Robb Stark, who had survived what would have been a deadly wedding thanks to the timely intervention of the Jedi, and was now in the middle of a pitched battle for control of a stronghold that held the plans for a secret dragon-powered Death Star.

"What?" asked Robb. Robb had been skeptical when this strangely-dressed man with the strange name of Skywalker had appeared out of nowhere and made strange claims about being from outer space, but then he had taught Robb how to use a strange power called the Force to help him block arrows, and Robb had stopped asking so many questions.

"We need to push forward through the gap created by Ser Marke's crushing defeat of Lord Chade!" Twin roars of consensus came as Chewbacca rode Grey Wind forward, scattering Stormlannisters before them. But just when it looked like they were going to reach the secret access route through the fortress' smoke exhaust pipe, the man Robb knew was called Boba Fett appeared out of nowhere wielding what he had heard Luke call blasters. "I've got a bad feeling about this!" he shouted to Luke.

"Use the Force, just like I taught you, Robb!" Luke watched Robb plunge towards Boba Fett, deflecting laser blasts all the while, and wondered if there would be time to touch his butt later. Just when Luke thought the battle was turning, he saw an AT-ST burst out of the walls of the fortress with one of these so-called White Walkers at the controls. "Not again," Luke thought to himself as he did Force-powered flips toward it.

Miles away, Cersei Lannister sipped her wine and coolly contemplated the captive space princess before her. "So tell me. If this 'Skywalker' is your brother, why are you romantically involved with another man?" she asked.

"What?" the princess asked. Her thoughts had wandered off towards the courageous Ser Marke. In the brief moments she had spent with him before getting kidnapped, she couldn't help but notice that the roguish, handsome knight had a butt that she wanted to touch even more than Han Solo's. Maybe she could get a frozen carbonite mold for those lonely Yavin IV nights.

Before Cersei could explain, the door to the chamber burst open. "Obi-Wan Kenobi?!" Leia exclaimed. "But I thought you were ..."

"Busy podracing?" Obi-Wan smiled. "I'm here to rescue you, Princess. And I'm being helped by a fellow I helped patch up named Ned, who says he'd just like a quick word with Cersei before we leave ..."

3 The Burn Of Love

While fanfiction is generally confined to fictional characters, there's a significant subgenre that features real people. After all, we all fantasize about having sex with Olivia Wilde -- who, after telling us how great we were, reveals that she's secretly a Starfleet officer who needs our help -- right? Isn't it healthier to express that desire creatively, instead of keeping it cooped up inside of you until it explodes in a night of questionable, irreversible decisions? Anyhoo, I thought I'd write an encounter between two big newsmakers.

Bernie Sanders rubbed his eyes. He could only write so many brilliant policy positions which all his loyal followers would understand perfectly before he got a headache. He was just about to announce free kittens for everyone, when he heard his assistant speak.

"Do you need anything else tonight, Mr. Sanders?" Mark asked in his smooth, sensual voice.

Bernie Sanders turned to look at his assistant. He reminded Bernie Sanders of a young Bernie Sanders -- handsome, rugged, and the owner of a butt that girls yearned to touch, but with eyes that said "I'd be happy to make you dinner and cuddle as you talk about your day at work." "Can you fire Chad on your way out? I'm sure you've noticed that he's dumb and useless," Bernie Sanders said to Mark.

"Sure thing, Mr. S."

"Thanks, Mark. Enjoy your date with Olivia Wilde!"

"I'm sure we both will, if you know what I mean." Mark winked and left the office. A moment later, he stuck his head back in. "I mean I'm going to have sex with her," he said.

Bernie Sanders returned to his hard work that would save America. But a minute later, the door opened again. Without looking up he said, "Yes, Mark, I know you meant butt sex."

"It's me, Bernie Sanders," said Hillary Clinton.

"Hillary Clinton?" said Bernie Sanders. "What are you doing here? Not that I think there's anything wrong with women staying late at the office while their husbands take care of the kids."

"I wanted to thank you for defending me over my email scandal."

Bernie Sanders stood and faced Hillary Clinton. "I'm sure you would have done the same for me. As you know, such trivial issues are simply attempts to divide us and distract voters from the real issues."

"That's right." Hillary Clinton stepped closer to Bernie Sanders. "And instead of being divided, I'd much prefer it if we were ... united."

Bernie Sanders took Hillary Clinton by her strong, confident elbows. "In our battle for an America that provides equal opportunity for everyone?"

"Yes, Bernie Sanders, among other things ... but there's something you need to know about my emails. For you see, they harbor a second, secret scandal. One that could completely change our lives."

"What is it?"

"Check your email and find out, Bernie Sanders."

Bernie Sanders checked for new emails and spotted it immediately. It was simply titled 'I Feel the Bern.'"

"Dear Bernie Sanders," it read, "I may be a strong, independent woman who hopes to be the first female President, but I'm also a woman with needs. Your fiery rhetoric and, dare I say it, classically handsome features have inspired a passion in me that I haven't felt since I first met a young, idealistic college student named William Clinton. But Bill is old and dull now, while you, Bernie Sanders, remain as sharp and uncompromising as ever. I feel the burn in my heart, Bernie Sanders, and I feel the burn in my loins. Do you feel it too? Do you feel it in your butt, which I would very much like to touch? Best Wishes, Hillary Clinton."

"Well, Bernie Sanders?" asked Hillary Clinton. Bernie Sanders lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"It's a good thing I support easy access to contraception, Hillary Clinton," said Bernie Sanders. "Because my political instincts are telling me that there's about to be a sudden increase in regional demand."

2 Sometimes Love Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

It's one thing to write fanfiction about real people you'll never meet, but what if it's about people you know? Friends, family, colleagues, people you've looked in the eye? What if you're nervous about showing them that they're perfect for each other? Well, it just so happens that two of my Cracked colleagues have already had fanfiction written about them. And it's not weird to add to an existing canon, right?

Daniel O'Brien was working late at the office, researching presidential facial hair or whatever, when Michael Swaim bounded in.

"Michael, why are you holding your underwear? And approaching me with it? And putting it on my head?"

"Get it? Eh? Eh?" Swaim asked, looking pleased with himself.

"I do not. Is this a thing I should get? Because I don't. I don't get it."

Swaim leaned in right next to Dan's ear. "Dan?" he whispered.

"Yes?"

"You're a butthead!" Swaim laughed and slapped his knee. When Dan did neither, Swaim slapped Dan's knee for him. "That's a real knee-slapper, huh?"

"Wouldn't I be an underwear head? Because you put underwear on my head, not a butt?"

There was a long pause.

"Dammit!" Swaim snatched the underwear from Dan's head. "It took me all day to think of that! I guess it's back to the drawing board. If it's okay to call it that, Dan."

"Wait, all day? Is that why you're still here at two in the morning? Just to put underwear on my head?"

"Yeah, I took it off at lunch, and then I just got into a brainstorming thing, you know? Although I did take a break to read Mark Hill's new column."

"Oh, '27 Reasons Chad Is Dumb And Should Suck It. Fuck You, Chad. You Know What You Did And Why I'm Coming For You'? That was fantastic."

"I know, right? But I'm not here to just talk about our incredibly talented and handsome colleague and put underwear on your bu-- underwear head."

Daniel sighed. "Then why are you here, Michael?"

Swaim glanced around the dark, empty office, then leaned in conspiratorially. "I want to talk about your butt."

"Oh please God no."

"Oh please God yes. I want to touch your butt, Daniel. Your butt is nice, and I want to do butt stuff with your butt. Butts."

"I ... I think we should keep our relationship professional."

"Well, I think we should make it probuttional. Come on, Dan. Let me touch that tush. Fondle that fanny. Assess that ass. Detour to that derriere. Grope those grapes."

"Michael, where is this even ... wait, grope those grapes?"

"Recon that rear. Handle that heiny. Brandish those buttocks."

"Okay, I get the idea."

"Tickle that tuchas. Bake those buns. Operate that orifice. Examine that exit. Test that tail. Search that seat. Rub that rump."

"I get it, Michael! Man, there are a lot of synonyms for butt."

"I know, right? And you said it was a waste of time to write a buttsaurus."

"Look, Michael. This is all very sudden. I don't know what to think."

"Yes you do, dammit!" Swaim grabbed Daniel and shook him. "Don't think with this!" Swaim pointed at Dan's head. "Think with this!"

"You just poked my butt."

"That's right. The butt that's spent many late nights at the office parked next to my butt. The butt that's had my butt on all those tight deadlines. The butt that farted in solidarity with my butt when no other butt in the office would. Our butts have seen some shit, man! Literally and figuratively! But they've seen it together."

Daniel looked long and hard. Into Swaim's eyes, I mean. "You know, when you put it like that, it's actually kind of beautiful."

"Just like you and your butt, my friend," said Swaim as his hands drifted down Daniel. "Just like you and your butt ..."

1 Agents And Presidential Candidates Of The Game Of Star Hunger Wars Games

Now that I've experimented with a number of different approaches, it's time to unite them. Some of the greatest novels ever written have blended wildly disparate styles and genres to form epics that span all conceivable boundaries. I'm not arrogant enough to compare myself to the masters, but at least I'll be able to say that I tried.

Daniel O'Brien and Michael Swaim were just getting to the best part of their butt-touching when Bernie Sanders burst into the office.

"Bernie Sanders? What are you doing here?" asked Daniel. "And can I ask you about your facial hair preferences for when you're elected president?"

"There's no time for that! President Snow has kidnapped my new lover, Hillary Clinton, and is going to make her fight in the Hunger Games as part of his scheme to systematically dismantle women's rights in America!"

"Gasp!" gasped Swaim. "He's going to take away the most important women's right of all ... the right to not get murdered in a death sport! Well, let the record state that I voted for Voldemort."

"No you didn't. So what's the plan, Bernie Sanders?" asked Daniel.

"Do you remember my declaration to invent time travel if elected?"

"Of course."

"Well, let's just say that's not one of those empty political promises," said Luke Skywalker as he emerged from the shadows. "I'm told you'll recognize me and my padawan, Robb Stark." Robb had replaced his great sword with a great lightsaber, and his winter furs with shorts and a T-shirt with his own face on it.

"And I'm here too, for some reason!" said Harry Potter as he apparated into the office holding his two new wands, Painbringer and Woundfucker.

Daniel and Swaim had 734 and two questions they wanted to ask, respectively, but Luke Skywalker cut them off.

"I have good news and bad news. The good news is that we have operatives in place at the Hunger Games." Luke revealed a tablet from his robes that displayed the faces of Katniss Everdeen, Mark, and Olivia Wilde. "The bad news is that the combined forces of the Empire, the Lannisters, the Capitol, and BuzzFeed are approaching this building as we speak. And they're led by Chads from across the spacetime continuum. I'm afraid there's barely time to plan for their attack, let alone do some team-building butt-touching."

"Then I guess there's only one thing to do, L-Dawg," said Mark as Katniss brandished her bow, Oliva Wilde showed off her flamethrowing guitar, and Mark lifted twin magnums that were shaped like his erection. "Use excessive Force."

The ensuing battle was too epic to be recorded in mere words, unless you count "bghtyr6y," which is the word that was formed when my erection hit my keyboard. The best way to approximate the experience would be to perform a sick guitar solo while receiving absolutely filthy oral sex from someone who's also performing a sick guitar solo, and then the president awards you the Presidential Medal Of Being Fucking Rad As All Hell, Oh Man, Did You See That Shit? We'll just leave it at the good guys won, and they won so hard that the bad guys' grandchildren would be born with exit wounds. Except they won't be born at all, because it's hard to have offspring when you're turbo dead.

Mark surveyed the quiet battlefield, probably thinking about the horrors of war or some other smart-guy shit, when Bernie Sanders approached him.

"Thanks for saving Hillary Clinton," said Bernie Sanders. "We just had some pretty kickass sex." Bernie Sanders and Mark high-fived.

"Well, I didn't do it alone. If Gandalf hadn't shown up when he did, then Dracula might have been the end of us all."

"So what are you going to do now?"

Mark put one hand on Bernie Sanders' shoulder, and the other hand on his butt.

"I'm going to live, Bernie. I'm going to live."

You can read more from Mark, or look at pictures of some of his favorite butts, at his website.

See Daniel Dockery's take on fan fiction in 5 Suprising Things I Learned Writing Awful Fan Fiction. And check out some fanfics that are over 1,000 years old in 5 Reasons Pop Culture Is Run By Fan Fiction.

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