fixtion [multi-fandom fanfiction recs]

Multi-fandom recs, little-to-no reasoning provided. If I link to it, I liked it.

Navigation is probably easiest through memories, although tagging is in full effect. There are currently no spoiler warnings, summaries or ratings on the recs. Many recced stories contain spoilers or are NC-17. Please click with caution.


currently emphasizing:
Supernatural/Supernatural RPS || Stargate: Atlantis || Stargate: SG-1 || Bandslash/Popslash || Jossverse (Buffy/Angel/Firefly) || Harry Potter || Battlestar Galactica || various crossovers, rps situations and grab-bag fandoms

Once Upon a Furry Octopus by skoosiepants
Sheppard/McKay (also THERE IS A FURRY OCTOPUS OMG)


The first time he saw Ronon, Ernie let out a loud warbling bleat, dropped all his pens, and squirmed up next to him at the conference room table. Then he tangled himself in Ronon’s hair, burrowing under the dreads and wrapping his arms around his neck, skull, one tip poking at the corner of Ronon’s mouth. And John really had to applaud the guy’s composure. Ronon took the molestation in stride, big shoulders shrugging, and Ernie communed with his hair for nearly an hour before getting bored and slipping off to pick up his pens.

After that, though, he’d let out an extra noise whenever he caught sight of the back of Ronon’s head.

Rodney said it proved he was just a simple, stupid beast, but John thought it just proved he was lonesome.

The Rules Remain A Mystery by joyfulgirl41
Sam/Dean


"Silver bullets and holy water. Check and check," Dean said as they got out of the car. "I thought you said this place was deserted, Sam."

Sam's stomach clenched a little at the statement. "It is. Dean. It is deserted."

But Dean wasn't listening to him, he was already at the door and Sam had to jog to catch up with him.

we happy few by iphignia939
Fall Out Boy GSF


"Hey," Pete said, sticking his head into Joe and Andy's room. "You guys want to come over for a second? Like, two minutes."

Andy looks up from the PS2. "Do we have to?" he asks. "We're kind of in the middle of something, here."

Next to him, Joe nods but doesn't look away. It's still weird for him to be here instead of back in Wilmette, decorating his house -- his house, how weird is that?. But that's the way it always is, after a couple weeks off. They all spend the first three or four days sleeping straight through and catching up on regular meals, then get twitchy and start calling each other to see what's going on. Anything longer than a week and the twitchiness goes away, and they start drifting off again. He isn't freaked out that they're all so disparate, now; it just means things are back to normal, or as close to normal as they get around Pete.

Gratitude for Northern Latitudes (You're Twenty-One, So Baby, Let's Go) by yeats
Pete/Patrick


Crawling out from his bunk, Pete knocks against his ipod on the floor. The face lights up, Bloc Party paused one minute into "So Here We Are." His battery's fucked, and he can afford to get one of the new photo models, but it seems like betrayal to throw out Wentzpod, as Mikey labeled it last summer.

He crouches to turn it off, and sees Patrick, across the aisle. Fucker's still got his glasses on, and the glow from the screen blocks the expression in his eyes. He's awake, though - his shoulders have kinked up under his blanket.

"You're going to crush your glasses," Pete mouths, which basically means sorry.

"Good thing I'm not asleep." Patrick gets it, but then. Yeah. Not a surprise, there.

We Fight Free Radicals With Our Kickass Sound by yeats
Pete/Patrick


"Are you fucking illiterate?" Patrick bristles, and isn't sure why.

"What?" Pete glances down, as if seeing the strip of tape for the first time. "Andy won't care. You know he won't." He smiles, holding out the bottle. "You want some?"

They live in a shared metal shell of recycled air, but Patrick thinks, germs, and then, absurdly, Pete's lips, and shakes his head. "Some of us respect other people's shit."

He's not sure how that sounds, but Pete's eyes narrow, and yeah, probably harsher than he meant it. "Right," Pete says, and takes another swig, pointed and quick so more juice dribbles down, and he's wasting it.

Damage Control by kosher_pareve
Pete/Patrick (Pete/Mikey Way)


While waiting for their food to arrive, Pete suffers what might accurately be labeled a “nervous breakdown.”

Patrick can’t really make out much of what Pete’s saying, due to all the crying and shaking and incoherent muttering and whatnot, but he’s pretty sure the theme is something along the lines of Holy Shit I Just Killed My Boyfriend (Fuckbuddy) And Now I’m Going To Jail And They’re Going To Pass Me Around Like Currency ‘Cause I’m Built Like A Pre-Pubescent Girl.

And Patrick is seriously just 0 for, like, 50 tonight on the helpfulness scoreboard, because his attempt to distract Pete enough to stop the hyperventilating consists of a competition to see who can come up with the most synonyms for “corpse.”

everything that dies by imogenics
Sam/Dean


In Oregon and Nevada, Sam counts crosses on the roadside.

In Colorado and Pennsylvania, there are maps that won't speak to him, cases like equations only solvable in reverse, cases that play like broken records. In Kentucky and Maine, there are hauntings, suicides, "accidents" in threes, sevens, sixes. The blind numerology of all these mysterious deaths is obvious, pointless. Sam wishes he didn't understand what compelled their helpless repetition.

Train Under Water by yeats
Jack/Spot


There is a city beyond the city, and as Spot sits on the roof of the warehouse, fingers warmed by his cigarette, he thinks he can almost tease it out in his vision. He leans back on his legs and closes one eye, counting the smokestacks on the choleric steamships, the church spires in the distance. The sun is setting over Manhattan, spilling onto the water as it sinks below the edge of that island.

Basic Tenets by hackthis
Sheppard/McKay


This also means that if Rodney is in the throws of talking about how great he is, and how they would all die -- shriveling, lung-withering deaths -- without his brilliance, and no one stops him, or at the very least slows his trajectory, Rodney will keep talking. And bitching. And alienating pretty much everyone in a 100-metre radius, until someone spikes Rodney's coffee with a very mild lemon-type of fruit extract.

This is a true story -- and not unlike something going splat! against the wall.

The difference being that things that go splat! do not get the consolation of John Sheppard sitting at their bedside for two days to make sure they're okay, and not dying or even slighty bruised.