because old fics need love too!
Rec rules the world!
Disclaimer: Selection method is highly subjective. Dean and Sirius suggest to blank your mind and read the whole lot because I say so.
SPN: ' Abide' by sevenfists (wincest, R)
Dammit. *cries* I know it's coming, hell, it's on the first sentence, but I still cried like a three years old. dammitdammitdammit. There's no words to rec, I say read it. Period. I'll go hide in a corner and die quietly now.
[...] Without Dean, he's loose, adrift. Untethered. There's no room for him in this new life, this place he's come to without Dean.
He stands there for a long time, looking at the darker earth he turned up and dispersed. Birds make erratic movements in the trees, building nests. There's a newspaper clipping in Sam's pocket, the last one Dean found before. Before. Some haunting in Mississippi.
Sam walks back to the car. It's April. He's thirty-one years old.
[...]
He went back to the motel that night and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He didn't look any different. Like most earth-shattering events, Dean's death failed to leave a visible mark.
-- So much loneliness from the first paragraph slammed into the second part, and turned visible. And the last quote? The truth was suddenly too true, right here as an evidence in front of him. Gorgeous. Every seconds reading this is hurtful. In a good way. Or a bad way, depending on your view.
SPN: Demonology 101 by profcricket (wincest, NC-17)
Oh the Crack! I almost fell in love with the poor demon, Speedy Pete, but he turned into pieces before I could fall fully. [inserts highschool girl giggles here] Too bad Leonard had to die.
SPN: It doesn't mean you can explain the ocean by rageprufrock
Ah, yes, I've been waiting to rec the story, because I wanted to rec only finished fics. I changed my mind. After I kept going back to read this story time and time again, and it just won't cease to be beautiful, I said to hell with not reccing WIP, because everyone needs to suffer with me and waits for the update together this is just too good to pass up. I realise this have been recced gazillion times before, but dude, good stuff is good stuff, you just can't possibly get enough of it.
It's one of those strange, surprising things Sam has always known about Dean, but has forgotten he was privy to: how Dean loves family, wants a home, values all of these things more than almost anybody who has ever had one. Sam remembers how he started to take Jess for granted, how he took his mailing address for granted. In Stanford, Sam had a mailbox, and all Dean has ever known is his post office box number. [from chapter 4]
-- Sam's guilt is so pronounced without having to address it.
Sam still has all eight of the cards, each dotted with Dean's laconic scrawl, neat despite itself, and Sam remembers divining hidden meaning out of the way Dean dotted his I's and crossed his T's. Sam remembers trying to read his brother from very far away and only seeing the reality of Dean like a blurry suggestion through a veil and hating it.
He remembers thinking it was like losing a limb, like moving a part of his body that isn't there any more, and being surprised every time he had opened his eyes and Dean hadn't been breathing quietly on the other side of the room. [from chapter 5]
-- Oh yes. Just, yes. You know what I mean?
HP: 'The Hollow Wall' by nimori (Sirius/Harry, NC-17)
I have no words to describe how much I love this. So gorgeous, very, very sexy and twisted and confusing and complex and mind-fuckery. I love it to bits. I have to read it so many times to see every layer there is, and I doubt I have seen it all.
The little glass bottles are cracked and dusty. They've never held a memory, and it's been years since they've held a potion. When he looks under the bed, he sees fresh handprints in the dust. He puts the box of bottles back, careful to place his hands in the existing tracks. They fit perfectly.
[...]
There's no sugar in the bowl, not even a grain, but the leather is curiously sandy in texture. He barely feels the tingle of the wandless transfiguration anymore. He's nineteen and as alone as he's always been. As he didn't have to be.
-- This part twisted a knife in my heart. I've seen the signs, nervously dismissed them, and then there's this part. The world Harry'd built for me shook and collapsed then every tiny bits started to come together again. Gah. I guess I just don't want to believe it. D:
Reading fics like these alternately makes me despair and try to be better. :S
...and I should prolly add 'Crack' and 'asgdfahsgfdasfdht' category to the rec. XD
Disclaimer: Selection method is highly subjective. Dean and Sirius suggest to blank your mind and read the whole lot because I say so.
SPN: ' Abide' by sevenfists (wincest, R)
Dammit. *cries* I know it's coming, hell, it's on the first sentence, but I still cried like a three years old. dammitdammitdammit. There's no words to rec, I say read it. Period. I'll go hide in a corner and die quietly now.
[...] Without Dean, he's loose, adrift. Untethered. There's no room for him in this new life, this place he's come to without Dean.
He stands there for a long time, looking at the darker earth he turned up and dispersed. Birds make erratic movements in the trees, building nests. There's a newspaper clipping in Sam's pocket, the last one Dean found before. Before. Some haunting in Mississippi.
Sam walks back to the car. It's April. He's thirty-one years old.
[...]
He went back to the motel that night and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He didn't look any different. Like most earth-shattering events, Dean's death failed to leave a visible mark.
-- So much loneliness from the first paragraph slammed into the second part, and turned visible. And the last quote? The truth was suddenly too true, right here as an evidence in front of him. Gorgeous. Every seconds reading this is hurtful. In a good way. Or a bad way, depending on your view.
SPN: Demonology 101 by profcricket (wincest, NC-17)
Oh the Crack! I almost fell in love with the poor demon, Speedy Pete, but he turned into pieces before I could fall fully. [inserts highschool girl giggles here] Too bad Leonard had to die.
SPN: It doesn't mean you can explain the ocean by rageprufrock
Ah, yes, I've been waiting to rec the story, because I wanted to rec only finished fics. I changed my mind. After I kept going back to read this story time and time again, and it just won't cease to be beautiful, I said to hell with not reccing WIP, because everyone needs to suffer with me and waits for the update together this is just too good to pass up. I realise this have been recced gazillion times before, but dude, good stuff is good stuff, you just can't possibly get enough of it.
It's one of those strange, surprising things Sam has always known about Dean, but has forgotten he was privy to: how Dean loves family, wants a home, values all of these things more than almost anybody who has ever had one. Sam remembers how he started to take Jess for granted, how he took his mailing address for granted. In Stanford, Sam had a mailbox, and all Dean has ever known is his post office box number. [from chapter 4]
-- Sam's guilt is so pronounced without having to address it.
Sam still has all eight of the cards, each dotted with Dean's laconic scrawl, neat despite itself, and Sam remembers divining hidden meaning out of the way Dean dotted his I's and crossed his T's. Sam remembers trying to read his brother from very far away and only seeing the reality of Dean like a blurry suggestion through a veil and hating it.
He remembers thinking it was like losing a limb, like moving a part of his body that isn't there any more, and being surprised every time he had opened his eyes and Dean hadn't been breathing quietly on the other side of the room. [from chapter 5]
-- Oh yes. Just, yes. You know what I mean?
HP: 'The Hollow Wall' by nimori (Sirius/Harry, NC-17)
I have no words to describe how much I love this. So gorgeous, very, very sexy and twisted and confusing and complex and mind-fuckery. I love it to bits. I have to read it so many times to see every layer there is, and I doubt I have seen it all.
The little glass bottles are cracked and dusty. They've never held a memory, and it's been years since they've held a potion. When he looks under the bed, he sees fresh handprints in the dust. He puts the box of bottles back, careful to place his hands in the existing tracks. They fit perfectly.
[...]
There's no sugar in the bowl, not even a grain, but the leather is curiously sandy in texture. He barely feels the tingle of the wandless transfiguration anymore. He's nineteen and as alone as he's always been. As he didn't have to be.
-- This part twisted a knife in my heart. I've seen the signs, nervously dismissed them, and then there's this part. The world Harry'd built for me shook and collapsed then every tiny bits started to come together again. Gah. I guess I just don't want to believe it. D:
Reading fics like these alternately makes me despair and try to be better. :S
...and I should prolly add 'Crack' and 'asgdfahsgfdasfdht' category to the rec. XD