official fic rec post

[magnetite]

I got tired of doing this really quickly, lol. But here is the start, at least. I'll add to it eventually.


X-Men

Residue by tawabids | warning(s): sort-of character death | 'verse: canon-deviation | summary: a few days after Charles' death, Erik starts hearing Charles' voice in his head.

Erik huffed. In and out, in and out. His lungs felt too tired to carry on with this tedious routine. He closes his eyes. "Why? Why are you haunting me?"

I love you, Erik. I want you to be happy. I want you to live without me.

Every Night Is Another Story by gameplays | warning(s): sex | 'verse: canon, post-First Class | summary: "There is a door in the back of Erik’s mind in the shape of Charles Xavier."

When they fight the X-Men for the first time, it is over a mutant girl who can walk through walls so easily that it is as if she cannot see them.

Havok hesitates where Mystique does not, pauses before trying to attack her, but she already has him up against a wall, one hand wrapped around his neck, Riptide already whirling wind together in his hands—and suddenly, Erik thinks, I taught you better than that, Alex.

It’s a moment of weakness – brought on by the fact that Erik himself tried to teach Alex (all of them, the children, Charles had said) to be ruthless, to not hold back, and by the knowledge that Erik can feel the metal of Charles’ wheelchair from across the building, simply crook his finger and bring Charles to him – that Erik pulls Riptide’s hands back by the cufflinks sewn onto the sleeves on his jacket and sends the tornados off into the opposite side of the building instead of at the wall that Mystique has Havok pinned to.

“Never again,” Erik says, eyes on Alex.

The next time, Havok attacks first.

For a moment, Erik almost feels proud.

Liquid Accelerant & sequel: Flashover by anon | warning(s): non-con, torture, violence, abusive language | 'verse: au, non-powered | summary: Charles and Erik have been having an affair behind the back of Sebastian Shaw, a powerful crime boss. When Shaw catches wind of the affair, he dishes out a ruthless punishment. Erik then plans to get even.

There's a few stars out, babe. Never thought I'd love that sight so much. Shaw told 'em to bury me alive, see, but I was lying there with them throwing dirt over me, and I thought, no fucking way am I going out the way he wanted. Lucky they dug such a big grave; fitted both the bastards who'd dragged me out there. Shaw's an idiot for not killing me when I was right in front of him. No wonder we managed to fool him so long.

I ain't dead yet. And I don't think you are either, love. I don't think Shaw's that kind. So rest assured, I'll be on my way soon enough. Patch myself up best I can, pick up a new gun, scope out the usual haunts, all the clubs, all the hideouts. I know Shaw better than anyone after all - 'cept maybe you, of course, but you ain't telling.

I'll see you soon, babe. Kiss kiss.

A Few Less Casualties From Now On by anon | warning(s): none | 'verse: canon, First Class | summary: In Russia, Erik runs off alone to interrogate Emma, and is followed by Charles. The next thing we know, they're bursting into the bedroom together. This is the missing scene.

"Stay out of the way," he instructed, trying to sound like Charles was a huge inconvenience, but fearing that he simply sounded concerned for Charles' safety instead.

His theory was proven right when Charles inclined his head to one side slightly. "While the chivalry is flattering, I'm perfectly capable of-"

"Getting shot by the next soldier we stumble across? I can stop bullets. You, my friend," he reminded, "are currently incapable of stopping anything."

The Winter Of Banked Fires by Yahtzee | warning(s): sex | 'verse: canon, post-X-3 | summary: "Charles Xavier has returned from the dead but is lost within his own mind. Rogue has cast aside her own power and doesn't know where she fits in the world any longer. The production of synthetic Cure means mutantkind itself is newly at risk. And Magneto, turned human against his will, is in despair until the day he feels a familiar consciousness tugging at his own..."

“I knew you would – ” To Erik’s surprise, Charles’ chest starts to shake with repressed laughter. “The minute, the very minute they said that line in the movie, Star Wars or Empire Strikes Back or whichever one it was – I knew if you saw it too, you’d say that to me one day.”

“If I saw it? Good Lord. I’m not exactly a fan of modern popular culture, but I do occasionally leave the house.”

“We’ve got decades of pop culture to discuss, you know. There were so many times I just wanted to hear what you would think of something. Especially something ridiculous.”

Their meetings were always so highly charged – in one way or another – that they’ve discussed almost nothing trivial or lighthearted in all the time since. “I know. Can you believe we’ve never had a chance to make fun of disco?”

Charles can’t hold back the laughter any longer, and Erik rolls back, the better to see his face. “Oh, God. That was the worst. Polyester suits and satin shirts.” He gives Erik a mischievous look. “Although I do seem to remember someone adopting a rather disco mustache around that time.”

“I thought you liked that mustache. We had rather spectacular sex one weekend while I had that mustache.”

“In spite of the mustache.”

Humane Society by smilebackwards | warning(s): none | 'verse: au | summary: "Once Erik finally allows himself to decide that Charles is pretty much the best thing since sliced bread, he spends the next week being incredibly bitter that he's Charles' cat and not his boyfriend."

Tuesday, Charles reads Erik an excerpt of his thesis. "To Homo neanderthalensis, his mutant cousin Homo sapiens was an aberration. Peaceful cohabitation, if ever it existed, was short lived. Records show, without exception, that the arrival of the mutated 'human' species in any region was followed by the immediate extinction of their less-evolved kin," he recites.

Yes, Erik thinks viciously, That's exactly what's going to happen.

He looks at Charles with his blue eyes and his bitten-red lips, ink stains on his fingers, and Erik wants to scream, Do something! Float the television remote into your hand or teleport to class or set something on fire--on purpose, not like the time you tried to cook tilapia and I almost had to call 911.

Charles remains decisively human.

The Law Of The Universe by kontrapunkto | warning(s): none | 'verse: atomatic au | summary: "Erik is an electron and Charles is a proton, but because Charles attracts other electrons, Erik fights them off with his magnetic powers."

Erik is a free radical. The rogues of the electron world. They're never stable; they operate by themselves; they steal electrons from other atoms at will (and they don't even have the decency to steal electrons in pairs - oh no - they'll steal half a pair of electrons, thus causing even more havoc with the atoms they attack). Free radicals like Erik are the reason that people are getting cancer, because when free radicals hover around the ozone layer, they chip off ozone molecule after ozone molecule without a break, allowing more radiation to hit the earth and the people on it. They're ruthless, and they're killers.

This Land Is Mine But I'll Let You Rule by pidgeoned | warning(s): none | 'verse: canon, First Class | summary: "Charles and Erik travel across America recruiting mutants."

“I'm trying to sleep,” he told Erik, whose thoughts weren't very quiet. They were erratic and all over the place, an avalanche of formless things that kept Charles alert and restless.

“I try to imagine random objects,” Charles continued, “Like a shoe or a teapot. I'm trying to imagine pleasant people.”

“There aren't any pleasant people, that's the problem,” Erik said, smirking and shaking his head. His eyes were unreadable in the dark and he sniffed softly, a sound that was wet and filled with wry amusement.

“I find you pleasant,” Charles volunteered, and this was only partially true. “Strangely enough. Broody though, at times a wet blanket.” He smiled when Erik leveled him with a look.

Phantom Limbs by bagheera_san | warning(s): none | 'verse: canon, post-First Class | summary: "Charles makes himself forget. Erik is there to remind him."

“There’s no need to look so concerned,” Charles says. “Hank seems to have got it into his head that I’m some sort of invalid. But to tell the truth – I am better than I ever was.”

“Have you looked into a mirror lately?”

Charles dismisses his body with a single gesture. “This is merely a shell. You’ve done me a favour, in many ways. Like a blind man’s hearing, my powers have grown to an extent I never dreamed of. And that is only the least of the gifts you gave me. You made me see. You taught me a lesson I sorely needed taught.”

Charles voice is still every bit as soft and persuasive as it was before, but the things he says, the things he is about to say, go against everything he was like nails on a chalkboard. “I wasn’t trying to teach any lessons,” Erik says, although maybe that is half a lie. Maybe he wanted Charles to learn a lesson, even if he didn’t want to teach.

But not like this. This is all wrong, like an elegant watch taken apart and put together again as a gun.

All The Fears You Left Behind by londondrowning | warning(s): none | 'verse: canon, First Class | summary: "Erik has had one goal. He’s spent his life in relentless pursuit of it and has given almost no thought to what would come after he achieves it."

“You aren’t going to hurt me, you fool,” Erik says with a chuckle. “And I need to see how quickly I can stop them. There will be bullets on the day, you know. Or do you intend to use all your power to make both fleets believe their weapons are loaded with rainbows and daisies?”

Charles cocks an interested eyebrow. “Now there’s an idea,” he says.

“Pull the trigger.”

Charles tilts the gun to the side, looking at it contemplatively. “I know that you’re right,” he says, finally. “You do have a point.”

“Good boy,” Erik says, grinning. “Can you save the rest of your pontificating until after breakfast?”

“However,” Charles says, sternly. “As we already know you can deflect anything that’s aimed at you, and since I can’t stand to aim at a person, why don’t we try a different approach? ”

By The Waters Of Lethe by anon | warning(s): schizophrenia | 'verse: canon-deviation, First Class | summary: "Erik is as real to Charles as any other person, but to everyone else, he's just a ghost."

If only Erik was not some figment of Charles’s agony! He seemed like he would have been someone she could like. But at least he offered comfort where he could not offer protection. She remembered when Charles used to laugh with her like that, back when emptiness was emptiness and not Erik.

“We think a lobotomy might cure or at least mitigate his delusions,” said the doctor quietly, breaking into her reverie.

“No,” interrupted Raven, suddenly, firmly.

“Miss Darkholme, we’re trying to help him.”

“No lobotomy is going to bring back the Charles that was,” she told him. “His ‘delusions’ are all that he has now, and I won’t let you take those away from him.”

Heritage by anon | warning(s): | 'verse: canon, First Class | summary: Erik and his Jewish heritage.

Erik Lehnsherr fades away – gradually at first, and later much more rapidly – and is replaced with a nameless, faceless entity. His name, his memories, his life – all have been taken away from him, just as they were taken away from his parents. He is no longer from Dusseldorf; he is from a million different cities and has a million different names and pasts. The world is his home, and yet it is not. He has a singular purpose, one driving focus that propels him forward.

Kill Schmidt.

After that, he does not know what he will do. A normal life has never been an option for him; he doesn’t even know what normalcy is. What is it like to be loved, to wake with a smile upon your face, to have a place where you belong? This man does not know. This man is fueled solely by rage, and if that candle is extinguished, he supposes that his life would be, as well.

That does not seem like a bad thing.

The Free Hugs AU by Etirabys | warning(s): none | 'verse: au | summary: "Charles is a college freshman giving out free hugs in front of Macy's. Erik is passing by. In the way, you know, Mercury is passing by the Sun."

There were a few people who passed by enough times for Charles to recognize them. There was the one who had been around before Charles had started noticing him, whose presence had grown in Charles' awareness until it pressed gently for attention. He walked by around 3:30 pm and waited for the bus for ten to twenty minutes. All the time he'd stare at the free huggers, gaze dark and absent, and then dark and intense, in turns.

Charles smiled at him often- he smiled at everyone who looked like they might come over- and tried to coax one back. The guy's mouth looked lovely for smiling, long and mobile, but all he had to go on was imagination. The man didn't smile very much- he was all black clothes and leather jackets and dark, hip-hugging trousers. He was, Charles thought, when he wondered about the man, the sort who didn't wear black to look good, but just did because it was comfortable and an inoffensive color. And completely rocked the look.

Charles, who couldn't put together a wardrobe if someone put a gun to his head, found himself casually admiring of that.

Limited Release by Rageprufrock | warning(s): none | 'verse: white-collar au | summary: "When Alex Summers broke out of supermax to rescue his stupid kid brother, he had no idea it was going to be so fucking complicated."

But Charles also knows every terrible thing, seen it, done it, lived through it, wanted it and hated it and been victimized by it, lived inside of it. Erik's confident of his own limits and limitations, but he never really knows Charles's -- there's no way to tell because Charles is rarely changed by it, still the volubly witty and charmingly dry professor, eternally interested in everything and everybody -- nothing a hopeless case. What the hell is Erik supposed to do with that, he wonders every fucking day.

Saudade by niched | warning(s): none | 'verse" cannon, First Class |summary: "Erik is suspicious of his feelings for Charles, attributing them to telepathic manipulation."

Perhaps it would be easier if they did hate one another. If they could make a clean break in two. Woundless, bloodless. But they’re not like that; they are sailor’s rope, tough and tethered, hacked away at, leaving two frayed strands, each helpless, useless.

Separation looms. Charles is not naive, no. Their disagreements are more fundamental than simple quarrels. Their differences run as deep as their similarities.

The reality, Charles knows, will be far more complicated than simply dividing into two independent entities – nigh impossible, when so much exists within the grey area of human experiences, in the realm of CharlesandErik, two as one. What they have shared cannot be severed. They are already wound up in one another, knotted beyond repair.

Je n'ai jamais promis un jardin de roses by birdsdown | warning(s): none | 'verse: canon, pre- & present First Class | summary: "charles had wanted a puppy for his tenth birthday. (or: charles takes care of roses to make up for the fact that he was not loved quite enough during his childhood.)"

His mother dies when he is sixteen years old.

Charles knew it was inevitable long before she did; by fourteen he could listen to the thoughts of the entire manor without too much of an effort and even without the constant stream of worries from the household staff, it was clear by her leaving her bed less and less that she was not long for this world. The thought bothers Charles more than he predicted it would.

The last few weeks of her life herald a particularly wet and humid April. The year’s first crop of roses is blooming and he begins to bring them to her, placing the largest and most perfectly-formed in a vase by her bedside. He’s not sure what colors would be the most appropriate so he brings her all of them; red, yellow, orange, pink, and ivory.

“Darling, where did these come from?” She asks him the morning before her death, fingering the petals wistfully. It’s a sunny day and Charles has brought his textbooks with him so he might study while he keeps her company. Raven plays outside, unburdened. “They’re beautiful.”

“From the garden, mother,” He answers, closing the sixth edition of Darwin’s On the Evolution of Species he had received on his fourteenth Christmas when she reaches out for his hand, clasping his fingers tightly between her own. He can feel her bones, thin and fragile as a bird’s. “I grew them at your encouragement.”

Snakes And Ladders Are Banned In Here by paperclipbitch | warning(s): none | 'verse: post-First Class | summary: "They never meet in public; not for fear of getting caught, but because they’re too aware of innocent bystanders."

There’s a cheap envelope with no postmark on Charles’ birthday; he opens it in Raven’s old room, drawers full of dresses no one will wear again laid out like corpses of a mistake, and his fingers shake even though he tells them it’s no use.

She’s tried to disguise her handwriting though he’d know it anywhere and they both know it. Shaky black letters that simply spell out many happy returns without a name, without anything else. There are memories clinging to the card; she ruined the first one by crying on it, the second one because the words were too angry, the third one because she said things she never meant to tell him even though she suspects he knows them anyway.

Charles bows his head over the thin sliver of communication and cries, in the space where Raven looked up at him with big confused yellow eyes and said for me?, fingers still fluttering like she still meant to run and wasn’t sure how to anymore.

Shared Custody by smilebackwards | warning(s): none | 'verse: canon-deviation, post-First Class | summary: ""I would like to date your sister," Azazel tells Charles after he makes a particularly fine point about Descartes' Discourse on the Method for which Azazel has no rebuttal."

Janos has always been a bit withdrawn and taciturn, but when he starts sleeping fourteen hours a day and reading French and Russian tragedies on the sofa the few hours he is awake, Azazel knows something needs to be done.

"Come on," he says, putting a hand on Janos' shoulder. "I have someone for you to meet."

Janos comes back to the hotel with his arms full of baked goods and what Azazel feels is much more appropriate reading for him--Arthurian legend and Tolkien and something called To Kill A Mockingbird. He sets everything down on the dining table, gently, and arranges the books in careful stacks before slumping on the sofa beside Azazel with a dazed look on his face.

Azazel thinks maybe he should have eased him into Charles a bit--a family dinner or tagging along on one of the museum outings Charles insists on for the cultural education of the younger mutants--instead of just dropping him off to Charles in the library for hours on end.

X Marks the Spot by thehoyden | warning(s): minor character death | 'verse: au | summary: "The year is 1962, and Charles Xavier is a professor of archaeology who knows how his students feel, whether he wants to or not. He spends his spare time researching a mythical artifact, but he knows better than anyone that X never, ever marks the spot."

“This is -- where did you get this? I’ve never seen anything like this -- where did these sketches of inscriptions come from--”

Eisenhardt grabbed his wrist again and carefully plucked the book out of his grasp. “You’re going to come with me and see for yourself.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to -- to leave with you for god knows where, I have classes to teach, I--”

“Dr. Xavier,” Eisenhardt said, voice soft. “I’d prefer you willing. Don’t make me threaten you.”

Charles wet his lips. “And what would you call what you’re doing right now?”

Eisenhardt’s eyes narrowed. “Persuasion.”

It was fortunate that Eisenhardt’s fingers were not actually touching his skin, but even so, the ferocity of his determination was battering Charles from all directions, and he knew that this man was not to be crossed. But even though a healthy sense of fear made his heart race, Charles couldn't help but steal another glance at the journal in Eisenhardt's hand, and it was reckless and stupid but he couldn't let that journal slip away from him. “Consider me persuaded,” Charles said.

Sherlock

Seeds by thesardine | warning(s): none | summary: "In a fit of boredom Sherlock plants some seeds, may or may not eat one cracker, and definitely languishes on the sofa for a while."

The next day Sherlock had a smallish case on his website, and the day after that John said, delighted, “Hey, you’ve got a little shoot coming up!” He grinned at Sherlock, who eyed him askance. Sherlock waited until John went away, then he got up and looked at his dill. He did indeed have a little green shoot coming up. It sent an inexplicable but giddy thrill through him. It was just a plant, he told himself. Plants grew on their own; Sherlock hadn’t even done anything.

From the kitchen doorway John said, “Got any plans for it,” and Sherlock tensed. John wasn’t supposed to see him looking at the dill. He didn’t know why. Sherlock forced himself to relax, then turned around abruptly, smiling in a stretched out sort of false way. “You’re going to make me something with it.”

John’s eyebrows shot up towards his hair. “Oh I am?”

Sherlock prayed God would deliver him from the simple-minded. He returned to the sofa and flopped down. “Yes, John,” he explained very patiently. John didn’t answer, but Sherlock could see he was smiling. Sherlock turned his face towards the cushion so John wouldn’t see how his own smile had become sincere.

A Mile In His Shoes by mamfidd | warning(s): none | summary: Sherlock and John bodyswap.

“So,” Mycroft pressed one finger over his lips. “A dead end. A trap. And a clue that turns out to be a Trojan horse, which puts you, effectively, out of action.” He tapped his lips, thoughtfully. “Only you’ve not stopped, have you?” His eyes, darker than Sherlock’s, darted between them. “Only slowed somewhat.”

“He is not stopping me, and only an idiot would try to stop John,” said Sherlock bluntly. John smiled at him, and Mycroft shuddered delicately.

“You have no concept of how odd it is to see Sherlock smile, especially with myself in the room,” Mycroft murmured. “Disconcerting, to say the least.”

In The Genes: Inter-phase part I, II & III of 5 (WIP) by alice_day | warning(s): none | summary: "A diagnostician and a detective must join forces to solve a mystery that threatens both their lives." In which Gregory House is the illegitimate father of Sherlock Holmes.

John glanced at House's cane, a customized job in matte black with flames around the base. House smirked. "Yeah, I pimp my ride," he said in a nasal American accent. "I see you don't need yours anymore, though."

"How--" Something niggled at John, something about the man's face. It was all...horribly familiar, somehow. "All right, how are you related to Sherlock?" he demanded. "Uncle? Second cousin twice removed?"

The tall man's eyes gleamed in approval. "Wrong," he announced. "Biodad. Also your boyfriend's only hope, judging from his records." He frowned. "Huh -- maybe you should call me Obi Wan, instead."

"He's not my, we're not, why does everyone think we're dating?" John spluttered, before blinking. "Wait -- what?"

"Biodad," House enunciated. "Short for biological father, or did they not teach you that term in medical school? Man, it's a good thing I never wanted grandkids, anyway -- with my luck, they'd get your brains and Sherlock's personality." He whipped the cane up, tapping Wilson's chart with it. "Got the latest scoop?"

"Yes, Obi Wan," Wilson said dryly.

House's grin was positively vulpine. "Excellent, Padawan learner. Since I'm the boss and can wake my minions whenever I feel like it, let's go perform a trans-Atlantic differential diagnosis."

He stumped off down the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder at John and Wilson. "You two coming or what?"

John started at the unexpected invitation. "Oh God, yes," he muttered.

Call And Answer by veronamay | warning(s): none | summary: "In which Sherlock is excessively pale, John is incredibly ranty, and a lot of unnecessary tea is made."

THIS IS NOT TEA. This is beige-coloured milk-water. Did you forget to put teabag in?

"One," John said, still holding the phone. "Two, three, four--"

Also, tepid.

If he were a cartoon character, John thought, there'd probably be steam coming out of his ears right about now. He could almost feel his blood pressure rising. Bloody Sherlock and his bloody imperious demands, as though John had nothing better to do than wait on him hand and foot all day when it was Sherlock who--

He threw himself out of the chair and spent the next five minutes concentrating very hard on making what was possibly the best cuppa in the history of tea. Then he drank it. Then he spent another five minutes thinking about absolutely nothing while he made another.

"Here," he said, kicking Sherlock's door open. "This is the textbook-perfect, eighty-degrees-Celsius, three-and-a-half-minutes-brewed, cup-warmed-beforehand sodding epitome of tea. It has precisely one-and-a-half teaspoons of raw sugar and a thimbleful of whole milk. If you tell me there's something wrong with it, chances are very good I will tip it over your head."

Axis Powers: Hetalia

A Brand Plucked Out Of The Burning by gramarye1971 | warning(s): graphic description of death by hanging | summary: "After a long absence from the New World, England travels into the northern reaches of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in search of young America -- and discovers the horrific lengths to which fear of witchcraft has driven some of his colonists."

Afterwards, when the men of the village returned to their homes, their haggard faces and haunted eyes told of a tale that was best left unsaid. Not even those most dear to them could persuade them to speak more than a few faltering words about the fate of the witch, or about the appearance of the unknown gentleman -- if it had been a gentleman, or indeed a man at all, for his eyes had been green as foxfire and his voice had a strange, inhuman resonance to it -- who came on horseback to claim the witch's body. Those who steeled themselves to speak might speak of the death, and even of the claiming...but after that, their recollections began to diverge.

Some spoke of a great black whirlwind that sprang up out of nowhere, and of how the horse and its rider leapt up into the howling tempest and vanished into the sky faster than the eye could follow. Others were ready to swear that the earth itself had opened up with an ear-splitting roar and swallowed them into its gaping maw, before closing over them with a long, low groan like that of a soul in torment. What all would agree was that something had happened, something that smote all their senses with unholy force -- and by the time they came back to themselves the dead witch, his infernal master, and the wild-eyed horse on which they rode were no longer there.

France And England's Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very-Bad Sex by mithrigil | warning(s): really bad sex | summary: read the title

He is tempted to step on France's foot, the part not cushioned by the ridiculous padding at his toes, but refrains. Instead, he grumbles and uncouples his codpiece from his hose, and the design of all this would be far more convenient were there not now a flap of linen hanging in his way, which necessitates the removal of the rest.

Also, the codpiece is beginning to lose its shape in his hand. Damned inconvenient, that.

"--ah," France says, grinning--no, smirking, it's closer to that--and eyes England's crotch. "So you exaggerate the truth."

"It's the fashion," England snaps, his cheeks reddening. "Stuff it."

"Angleterre, it is always the fashion to be sufficient."

"Oh, sufficiency is what you want, is that it? Rest assured-- " England begins, and then stops, as in his efforts to shove his shift out of the way, he's gotten it hopelessly tangled in the ties. "Bollocks," he mutters.

France drapes himself over England as if to restrain him, and takes him by the wrists, thumbing at the laces over his cuffs. "I am sure they are in there somewhere."

England elbows him in the gut.

Never Before Part I, II, III, & IV by puella_nerdii & mithrigil | warning(s): WWII, language | summary: "World War II for [America and England], in letters and telegrams. Fucking Luftwaffe." *I literally cannot rec this one enough.

13 June, A.D. 1944

Dear America,

Well, it only took the Kraut a week to get back at us. And by us, of course I mean me, seeing as they don't have anywhere else to go at this point. Well, they're bollocksing up things with France as much as they can, but it's not much. We'll see this through.

But I really didn't need any more bombings. Honestly.

We'll just have to get them all out of the air and out of our hair, then, won't we.

I know you're busy with things in the Pacific and I envy you that but even with France back in the equation we're still not all that balanced out here. Russia's taking care of Finland at the moment--good god, I wish he was on our side--Finland, I mean--so I am going to need you here to see things through as we reclaim all that Germany's taken. And, god willing, repair what damage he's done. Seeing France like this isn't helping. It gets harder to insult him every time I look. I mean, it's easy, because he reeks, but I think I might genuinely pity him.

And about what you said after D-Day

Cheers.

England



June 19, 1944

England,

Don't worry, I'll be back to deal with the hedgerows of death soon. (What does France call that kind of countryside again? You know, the one where you've got all these pretty woods and pastures clumped together but the roads weave around even more than you do when you're drunk? I think it begins with b.) Either way, I'm almost at Cherbourg -- or I will be once I get back to France, you know what I mean -- even though Germany and his men keep hiding in the hedges and shooting me. Those hedges, England, they're like God's own duck blinds or something.

You've shot ducks before, right? I haven't in a while, but I got to have a good old-fashioned turkey shoot earlier today. I don't know if you've been to a turkey shoot -- I guess it's kind of like one of your fox hunts or something? Except in a turkey shoot, you don't send dogs to do your dirty work while you sit around wearing a monocle or something. Also, foxes are really good at avoiding the people chasing them and turkeys just kind of blunder into bullets. Or anti-aircraft fire, if they're Japan's pilots. He's really scraping the bottom of the barrel with them these days. There was this whole pack of planes flying towards Guam, and hey, if Japan just wants to hand over his pilots to me like that, I've got a few good ideas about what to do with them.

Well mostly it's one idea, but it's a lot of that one idea. Thank you Second Amendment.

America

Shells For Teeth And Weeds For Tongue by mithrigil | warning(s): none - rated (sexual) R | summary: "Bottomless lakes, creaking hammocks, the Long Island Sound, and England’s gloved hand has been circling the welt on his hip for the better part of two days."

31 October, C.E. 1776

Even the fog is still. The Long Island Sound is calm, far too calm, it smells like the ocean and isn’t, and England can see nothing from the ship’s prow. Nothing but grey, the palest grey like the whites of an enemy’s eyes… He’d call it a curse, but he didn’t cast one, not this time. Why would he? Why would he want to let Washington retreat into New Jersey?

Because America is with him, the bruise on England’s hip states, quietly, clearly, like a visitation.

America was at that battle, America was standing against him, England struck him like a soldier and America bruised him back and shed blood upon him, and England’s gloved hand has been circling the welt on his right hip for the better part of two days. At night he lies awake, traces the bruise with his nails, and refuses to let it progress from there. The wound had been almost the rich blue of America’s eyes, and now that is fading. Perhaps England can, will, hold out.

For now, it affects his posture, covering his hip so.

Since Herod, Caesar, And Many More by mithrigil | warning(s): depictions of war | summary: The siege of Yorktown.

And the world erupts around them, the snap of a thousand guns and a million raindrops, fire and rust and hate. England feels his coat tearing, his skin slicing open, fibres and heat stinging him to the veins, to the bones—the air is burning, the rain bursts into steam against his cheeks, his hands, the tatters of his gloves—and through it all, at weaponpoint, America stares at him through the frame of gold around his eyes and asks, begs, what have you become, England, what have you always been, what are you making me?

Look at me, England.

Look at me.

It might be the blood spreading over his knuckles, but England’s grasp on the gun is slipping.

“It’s—” England can’t tell if he’s saying, or not, but the rain’s dripping past his lips and it’s wrong, it tastes like the sea, salt and the sea, “it’s—no good—shooting you—”

He’s not holding the barrel anymore—the trigger’s gone—America’s eyes are weapon enough, smouldering, drilling into his, inexorable as the rain, as the—as the earth England’s knees are sinking into, now.

Black Swan Theory part I, II, III by umbrellaracing | warning(s): none | summary: "The only thing Alfred has never tried to calculate is the velocity of love. AU in New York City with geekiness galore."

“That was…very blunt,” he finally says, and then—yes-- chuckles. Ludwig’s laugh is the sort that he wants to keep in jars and let out when he’s angsting, because it’s honest and rare and steady and just a little fragile, just like he is. “But you just reminded me of something I learned about a couple years ago.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s called the Black Swan Theory.”

“Sounds like a creepy thriller movie—” A torrent of violent hacking bursts its way out of Alfred’s throat at that moment. He doubles over and out of Ludwig’s shadow, coughing and coughing and coughing—and feels pounding on his back, right against his spine, which actually sends sparks behind his eyelids and makes him start choking, so the pounding stops all of a sudden and is replaced by two arms that wrap around him, tightly and gingerly at the same time, and he expels the last of his coughs as Ludwig’s heartbeat skips into his spine— which feels ten times better.

And tucked away inside his headache, Alfred thinks, hey. I could totally get used to this sick thing.

-

*sex is under "warnings" simply because I didn't bother making another section for "rating."