Writing up recs posts is more fun than doing work!
BoB RPF: Claim by andrealyn (slight Settle/Bailey, Webgott)
See, this, this is what I love about BoB RPF -- that scary negotiation between "Who am I?" and "Who am I playing?"
He hears the commotion from just down the barracks when they’re doing the rotations for guard duty and all forty men are wondering just what they’ve gone and put themselves into. Ross is so tired that he’s started to think in the American accent and he’s sure if someone came across him on the path, he’d salute and answer faster to Liebgott than he would his own name.
SPN: Needles and Balls by fryadvocate
This is a very serious fic, meant to be taken very seriously.
The first meeting of the I Fucked a Winchester Stitch 'n Bitch Society was held at a bar named Red's Saloon.
SGA: Dæmonology by trinityofone
It's true what they say about SGA fandom being full of fucking amazing writers. This is SGA/HDM daemonfic, and it's just marvelous. indy_go, you're a bad, bad lady for sucking me into this.
Rodney remembers all his dreams, of course, in brilliant Technicolor detail. He’ll wake up panting and short of breath and, of all ridiculous things, hungry, so he’ll think on the lights and rip open yet another powerbar, taking big bites and fast swallows, pausing only to break off a few crumbs for Tyk. She eats daintily, but then, everything she does looks dainty; it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?
He mentions this theory to her and they talk it out. Tyk is a perfect sounding board: the only other creature in the world who’s as smart as he is.
DA: lie down beneath this bowl of stars by musesfool (Max/Alec)
Post-series; post-apocalypse; post-narrative arc. Alec's timing sucks.
"So, what are you gonna do?" she asks, finally. She tips her head back to look up at the stars instead of at Alec's too familiar profile. "New York? New Orleans? LA?"
"Yeah," he says, with a soft laugh. "Gonna shake the dust of this town off my feet and see the world."
They'd talked about it a lot over the past two years, during long night shifts on duty, over cups of bad coffee or cheap beer, on this very roof sometimes. Soon she'll be able to go to the Space Needle again to do her thinking, and Joshua will go to gallery openings in San Francisco, and Alec can go wherever he damn well pleases.
BoB: I have two offerings today, both of which touch on the "No atheists in foxholes" trope in very different ways.
Foxhole Philosophy by skew_whiff
Harry and Nix in a foxhole in Bastogne. The banter is marvelous, Harry's optimism is as blindingly wonderful as his grin, and Nixon's own beliefs are wonderfully close to my own. (I saw an icon today that said "Atheists believe in people." I think I may have to steal that.)
"Forgive me, but I'd rather our salvation came as a delivery of supplies or a German retreat than hoping for divine intervention," Nixon said, passing the cigarette back.
"I'm not sure you quite understand how it's meant to work," Harry said. Nixon shrugged.
Whose Faces I Do Not Recall by likethesun2
Here's a perspective I've never seen written before: Father Maloney's. There are a few spots here and there where I didn't agree with characterization, but those are more than eclipsed by a truly wonderful understanding of the experience and job of a combat chaplain. Maloney's take on Lipton in particular is beautiful; watch also for the single, chilling observation on Speirs. Definitely read this.
When the men have settled into their positions, he begins to walk down the line. He thinks that perhaps this will be like the day before the jump, a time for confessions, but the men look at him blankly as he goes by, lost in themselves. There is no Bill Guarnere to swagger up with his strange mixture of deference and aggression and say, “Father, gotta tell you somethin’.” There is no Skip Muck to flag him down enthusiastically and say, “Father, I’ve swum the Niagara and I’ve jumped out of a plane and I’ll do this, but I’m sure not gonna do it before I get rid of some little liabilities.” There are no more pressing secrets to be shared among the living. The only secrets left are in the blasted foxholes, the blood in the snow: the abstruse codes of disappearance.
See, this, this is what I love about BoB RPF -- that scary negotiation between "Who am I?" and "Who am I playing?"
He hears the commotion from just down the barracks when they’re doing the rotations for guard duty and all forty men are wondering just what they’ve gone and put themselves into. Ross is so tired that he’s started to think in the American accent and he’s sure if someone came across him on the path, he’d salute and answer faster to Liebgott than he would his own name.
SPN: Needles and Balls by fryadvocate
This is a very serious fic, meant to be taken very seriously.
The first meeting of the I Fucked a Winchester Stitch 'n Bitch Society was held at a bar named Red's Saloon.
SGA: Dæmonology by trinityofone
It's true what they say about SGA fandom being full of fucking amazing writers. This is SGA/HDM daemonfic, and it's just marvelous. indy_go, you're a bad, bad lady for sucking me into this.
Rodney remembers all his dreams, of course, in brilliant Technicolor detail. He’ll wake up panting and short of breath and, of all ridiculous things, hungry, so he’ll think on the lights and rip open yet another powerbar, taking big bites and fast swallows, pausing only to break off a few crumbs for Tyk. She eats daintily, but then, everything she does looks dainty; it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?
He mentions this theory to her and they talk it out. Tyk is a perfect sounding board: the only other creature in the world who’s as smart as he is.
DA: lie down beneath this bowl of stars by musesfool (Max/Alec)
Post-series; post-apocalypse; post-narrative arc. Alec's timing sucks.
"So, what are you gonna do?" she asks, finally. She tips her head back to look up at the stars instead of at Alec's too familiar profile. "New York? New Orleans? LA?"
"Yeah," he says, with a soft laugh. "Gonna shake the dust of this town off my feet and see the world."
They'd talked about it a lot over the past two years, during long night shifts on duty, over cups of bad coffee or cheap beer, on this very roof sometimes. Soon she'll be able to go to the Space Needle again to do her thinking, and Joshua will go to gallery openings in San Francisco, and Alec can go wherever he damn well pleases.
BoB: I have two offerings today, both of which touch on the "No atheists in foxholes" trope in very different ways.
Foxhole Philosophy by skew_whiff
Harry and Nix in a foxhole in Bastogne. The banter is marvelous, Harry's optimism is as blindingly wonderful as his grin, and Nixon's own beliefs are wonderfully close to my own. (I saw an icon today that said "Atheists believe in people." I think I may have to steal that.)
"Forgive me, but I'd rather our salvation came as a delivery of supplies or a German retreat than hoping for divine intervention," Nixon said, passing the cigarette back.
"I'm not sure you quite understand how it's meant to work," Harry said. Nixon shrugged.
Whose Faces I Do Not Recall by likethesun2
Here's a perspective I've never seen written before: Father Maloney's. There are a few spots here and there where I didn't agree with characterization, but those are more than eclipsed by a truly wonderful understanding of the experience and job of a combat chaplain. Maloney's take on Lipton in particular is beautiful; watch also for the single, chilling observation on Speirs. Definitely read this.
When the men have settled into their positions, he begins to walk down the line. He thinks that perhaps this will be like the day before the jump, a time for confessions, but the men look at him blankly as he goes by, lost in themselves. There is no Bill Guarnere to swagger up with his strange mixture of deference and aggression and say, “Father, gotta tell you somethin’.” There is no Skip Muck to flag him down enthusiastically and say, “Father, I’ve swum the Niagara and I’ve jumped out of a plane and I’ll do this, but I’m sure not gonna do it before I get rid of some little liabilities.” There are no more pressing secrets to be shared among the living. The only secrets left are in the blasted foxholes, the blood in the snow: the abstruse codes of disappearance.