Various fic recs
Vampire Diaries | Four Letter Words by miraxcorran | PG-13
She takes refuge instead in old sayings. Over and over and over she reminds herself that it’s better safe than sorry and that she can fake it till she makes it.
It works.
Sometimes.
For everything else, there’s Damon’s booze to steal. Or MasterCard.
Buffyverse | Thicker Than Water by snowpuppies | NC-17
She can't find them.
She sees, sees it all behind her eyelids-paper and ribbons and vomit-but it doesn't make sense, no sense at all, and she might be going mad, but Mummy and Daddy will make it all right, she just knows it.
If she can-blood, blood, so much blood-find them.
Buffyverse | All Fly Away by snowpuppies | R
Willow's still chanting. Three tries and still no presto-whammo-soul.
You sigh, leaning back against the wall as Willow slumps between her pillows. "Whew, that was-" she begins, only to be cut off by an awful thundering roar.
Your eyes widen as you look from Willow to Oz; you all know what it means, but no one wants to say it aloud.
Vampire Diaries | Appropriate Attire by this_heroione@dw | R
"Witch," Bonnie said, aggravated. "Fire. Dead vampire. Get out of my bathroom!"
Damon leaned back against the counter, grinning like a cheshire cat. "Couldn't possibly. You might still be in danger, after all. Our nemesis may have been delayed along the way--wrong street sign, tripped over his shoelace, fell into a manhole...hell, as terrifying as he is, he may have been delayed helping an old lady across the street!"
"God, you're an ass," she muttered. Narrowing her eyes, she said, "fine, then. If I need you, I'll scream. Until then..." she flicked her fingers at him. "Shoo." When he showed no signs of obeyed, she narrowed her eyes. "I will move you."
The Losers | Blood Comes Off Easily by charlie_d_blue | R
She doesn’t hate him for killing her father; it is an unforgiveable fact of the world, like entropy, or sub-standard bullet casings. Something that cannot be changed and must be played out to the end, blood for blood. It doesn’t change the way his voice can make warmth pool in her belly, the way his hot breath against her neck slides into her bloodstream, makes her an addict. It doesn’t change the way that she cares for him, like she used to love her Doberman, who was equally as vicious, and equally as endearingly a beast of its nature. Her father put it down after it drew blood on her inner thigh, leaving a mean scar that still curves upward into crude territory, a scar that Clay traces with his tongue, stubble rough against the tender skin, and bites gently down on before moving farther up.
Yes, she thinks. This is probably why she likes him so much. He very much a human-shaped killer dog, only with a better smile and opposable thumbs that allow him to carry M-16s like he’s a porn star and the guns are his fake tits.
Fringe | a copy of a copy of a copy by goddesspharo |
They'll find memories within memories when they cut into her, another existence folded into her own as neatly as her (other) mother's lemon meringue. Hybrid, they'll call her when she's too sedated to dispute it and, later, it'll be gateway in hushed tones, something bordering on reverence when Olivia is lowered into the sensory deprivation tank to chart maps only she can draw.
Messiah and destroyer bleed together in the dark.
Fringe/SCC | Chasing Whiskey With You by chaila43 |
"No thanks," she says, indicating her fresh drink and looking away. "I'm not really looking for company." He looks like he's about to make an issue out of it when a dark-haired woman walks up to the bar on the other side of him. He compares the newcomer to Olivia's disinterest and clearly decides the unknown might be a better bet. Olivia hears him make the same offer to the new woman, complete with the pet name. The brunette doesn't even bother to answer him. She silently gives him a cold stare that sends him slinking away as if he'd been kicked. Evaluating the woman's expression, Olivia thinks he might have been lucky to escape with only metaphorical bruises.
Sarah Connor doesn't know what she's doing here. She doesn't want to think about how many different things could end that sentence. She doesn't know what she's doing on the East Coast chasing a wisp of a lead on Kaliba, she doesn't know what she's doing in this new world without a replacement plan now that she has no son to protect and prepare. She doesn't even know what she's doing in this bar. At least she can answer that last question immediately. She orders a whiskey.
Fringe | The Shape of a Sooner State by cherryice |
Charlie took you under his wing without ever seeming to do anything of the sort; Charlie was uncertain until you saved his life and he saved yours and you bonded, grimacing, over stitches and bullet wounds. Astrid has shown up silently at your door with Jack Daniels and movies where shit blows up and no one knows how to actually hold a gun; Astrid cannot meet your eye. Broyles did not trust you; Broyles does not trust you.
Walter loves Peter, loves red vines and the heads of animal crackers and bound Cortexiphan to your synapses.
Walter wants to take you to pieces.
Fringe | The Art of Fugue by blackmamba_esq |
Astrid dreams in numbers. She knows that life is all about patterns and symbols, codes that say things, mean things, and so in her dreams she counts because it’s the only way understand it. Like the fact that there are thirteen street lights on the road outside her apartment building but only ten that flicker out in her nightmare; or that there are two men who’ve loved her and one woman who broke her heart, so the faceless lover between her legs must be a figment of her imagination. That there are two worlds with Astrid Farnsworth’s, so the strange pictures on the wall may not be hers.
Tonight she dreams about her mother. She counts the years (sixteen) and counts again just to be sure. They don’t speak this time, (this time because there have been others. Astrid’s yelled at her before, but it comes out muffled, like screaming through cotton the way such things in dreams do), but their bodies mirror each other, legs crossed, hands listless over one knee, eyes flitting back and forth between the floor and the face in front of them. There were six glasses in the crystal set Astrid gave her for Christmas. There were forty-eight years in her mother’s life. There was one birthday they never forgot. There will always be five days that Astrid can’t remember.
SCC | To Learn The Games You Play by wanderlustlover@AO3 |
Allison’s problem is never that she doesn’t remember. It’s burning under her tongue, in her veins and the furious pounding of her heart, even when it’s the very first thing she tells the monsters. Her captors. The Terminators. Skynet.
She’s going to be tortured.
Starved. Treated like an animal.
She’s going to wish she had died.
Fringe | it calls me on and on by vega-writes |
Olivia's very presence is wrong here.
That is the only way she knows how to describe it. She does not belong in this universe. And she knows, better than most, exactly how much she does not belong; she's seen the evidence herself in her universe, watched the fabric of the world bending and glowing around Peter, felt the tug in her gut of a great balance unsettled. She cannot trace the same disturbances here, but she knows in her bones that the very fact of her existence here is all wrong, corrupted and unnatural, and that sooner or later -
Well, sooner or later, the world will find its level again.
And she doesn't think it will include her.