Sherlock ran a website called The Science Of Seduction, on which he gave advice on the best ways to get laid, wrote blog entries detailing the results of his various sexual 'experiments' and generally contributed to the stereotype of 'every gay man is a sex-mad playboy'. John avoided the thing like the plague.

Eames is a factory worker, a troubled migrant, and a madman. The city of Los Angeles stretches around him, writhing with dreams, and Eames can't shut them out.

Omegas in heat? The perfect whores. Sebastian Shaw? The bastard who kidnaps them for his Hellfire Club. Erik Lehnsherr? A hard-boiled detective who's been on the Hellfire case for months. The life-changing catastrophe that unfolds when he goes in on retrieval ... and finds Charles Xavier still writhing in his bed? ... Deep. Cover.

When detective Charles Xavier finds himself hunting down a vendetta-driven serial killer, it doesn't take long for him to realize he's in over his head. It only takes a little longer for him to realize his killer is, too.

“I promised your sister I would look after you, and that’s what I’m doing. Don’t forget, Charles, that you made this bed for yourself. Don’t blame me if you have to lie in it, too.”

In which Charles is the mutant terrorist and Erik is the professor, and nothing is the same but everything is.

Harry Potter has only ever had two goals in life: to defeat Voldemort and to bring his followers to justice. One, he's done. The other is in progress. It should be simple, except there's one former Death Eater who doesn't meet the right criteria.

< recording: azazel/prison_security/cctv/northwing /interview_room_camera_2/1_aug_1967 >

>xavier is seated at table / hands free / telepathic blocker crown surgically implanted
>lensherr enters with bodyguards
>lensherr dismisses bodyguards
>l: tell me what i’m thinking, mr xavier.
>[silence for 1 second]
>l: i can’t imagine how uncomfortable it must be for you without your abilities.
>x: not so bad, mr president. you should try it. feel the insubstantial difference between us and humans.

Years later, Charles would remember that day. Sometimes he would wonder if he could have changed anything; other times he would despair over what he had since become. But he would always hold the image in his mind: Raven, laughing, and his thoughts flying alongside her on strong wings, silver-gold through the winter air. Once upon a time.

XMFC/Inception fusion AU. Erik is an extractor, Alex is his point man. They're assembling a team to go after the most dangerous mind in dreamsharing: Sebastian Shaw. But unless Alex and the team can keep him in check, Erik's desire for vengeance might just rip the whole job apart around them -- and then there's the shade that haunts his dreams...

John is Arthur's older brother. They don't see each other very often, but they get along well enough. And they're always going to be brothers.

Charles looks right at him. Blinks, weakly, in the growing sunlight. "You want to go," he says. "I won't stop you, Erik."

Erik shakes his head. "I'm going to stay," he says.

"For me?" Charles' tone makes it clear he believes himself to be an inadequate reason.

Erik fixes him with a stare. "For you," he confirms.

Arthur does not take it well when he discovers Merlin's magic.

"Such fine metal a peasant could not possess, with little time to hone a sharp blade. Why, I imagine it was a dreadful experience."

It wasn’t until Arthur had left for Tintagel that Uther had Merlin arrested.

It hadn't been Nimueh's destiny to die at his hand, on this isle. And if her destiny could be broken… so could anyone's.

"They still love you," he says. "It’s not as if they’ll stop anytime soon, not while you’re victorious."

Eight children – all under the age of thirteen – had disappeared from Camelot in the past six weeks. This little girl had been the first one recovered – dead and barely three years old.

A hand on his shoulder – scalding hot – wrenches him from her. He tells himself he doesn't remember what comes next.

"How long do you think it will be, before Uther learns the truth and both your lives are forfeit? Come with me and he will keep his life. By all the ancient gods I swear it."

From the lowest dungeon Merlin imagines he can hear them building the platform, driving iron nails. The ring of the axe being sharpened haunts him like a faint echo, like keen-edged memories. The day rushes past with a sickening lurch. The dark lonely hours before dawn have closed in when he hears the sound of hurrying footsteps. Arthur's hands are slippery with blood, the key stained red. He tosses a small pouch, heavy with coins, that Merlin almost doesn't catch.

He stores it up for later, all that raw hysteria, to relish in a moment when he is alone. He stores L’s stricken look away too, and can barely contain himself. The weeks without the Death Note have given him time to imprint L’s face on his mind – he can see it, the gaze of friendship, the eyes that are by now too comfortable watching him, too warm, even as they widen in suspicion.

It is jarring, then, to find a woman lying in a pool of red in the upstairs bathtub. Disturbing, to see the blood protection of the Boy-Who-Lived slowly and very literally drip down the bathroom drain.

The Inferi are the worst when it's someone they once knew.

"Oh MERLIN. STOP WRIGGLING OR I'LL HEX YOU! This is a rule. There is a KNICKERS RULE!"

Merlin is not how Arthur remembers him. His memories tell him of a man with eyes as gold as the sun, who shared his bed and stood behind his throne; a man powerful enough to rule the world, and humble enough to never do so. The Merlin Arthur knew was joyful, idealistic and naïve. The man Arthur is faced with now, is ancient, broken and has been stoned out of his mind for nearly six centuries.

Until the liberation of Warsaw in 1945, many men and women risked their lives trying to help Jews escape Nazi persecution. Merlin tried to help as best he could and it was in doing so, that he was reunited with Arthur.

She wants to scream, to cry out at them to look at what it is they would be destroying. Arthur, her Arthur, is the greatest king that Albion has ever known. Beneath his benevolent hand the lands have known wealth and prosperity, they have unified and built up links of trade. Barely has the taint of war been known and the scars of previous generations have faded, hardly remembered. And now it comes to an end.

Arthur Weasley discovers that no matter how limited the choices, the cost of using the enemy's techniques is too high.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Sorting Hat announced, and Remus scurried over to the Hufflepuff table, hoping he could make friends there while still keeping his secret.

"There is only one truly effective and permanent love potion, Miss Black. You won't find it in books, because it is difficult, deeply personal, and useless."

All men kill the thing they hate, too, unless, of course, it kills them first.

If a Vulcan has an emotional reaction, and there’s no one around to see it, does it still have any significant impact?

Remus' hand was on Sirius' shoulder, and had been for too long. James stared at that, at the tight curve of long fingers against leather, and was torn between gratitude, that it saved him from looking at anyone's faces, and resentment of what it implied. Sirius had been dodging his questions, lately, and Remus had a way of looking at him, bland and watchful, which meant the questions stuck in his throat. They were his friends, and he didn't care if he was right: he didn't care what they did to or with each other. But they were his friends, and they shouldn't lie to him.

When you're five, you're running down the street with your father, and skin your knees on the sidewalk. Your father surveys the damage and you're trying not to cry, because whenever your father sees other children bawling over something like that he first tells you how useless crying is, how it doesn't make the pain go away and doesn't make the scrape heal, before going over and offering a bandage with a kind smile.

She freezes, looking up at Abraxas Malfoy's portrait. It--he--has always been civil to her, but not what she'd call friendly, certainly never paternal. Now he is smiling down at her, with more warmth and force than a swath of canvas has any right to project.

I’m not sure why I responded to the ginger-haired girl the way I did. I’d seen a hundred of her type before--pale and skittish at finding themselves here, but arrogant, too, never worked a day in their life, likely to look down on a woman like me who makes a honest living through trade. They pretend like they’ve been to Knockturn Alley before, like they know what they’re doing, like they know what they want. They rarely do. I take their gold anyway. I need it. We’ve all been screwed over by somebody--and I’m the first to admit it happened to me--but if they pay me enough, I’ll help them act like that’s not true.

After his father casts a mysterious curse on Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy is forced to try to make things right.

Had he been human, he would have been well into what qualified as ‘infirm’ - seventy or eighty years old, where some humans simply can’t look after themselves. Instead, Spock is a vulcan of eighty years, still with dark, impenetrable eyes and a sharp mind and the strength to take down a battalion of klingons.

By the time he is twenty one summers old, Arthur Pendragon is perfectly cold enough to be king of Camelot.

Finally decided to get up, did we. Still lazy as ever, I see, your Majesty."

Pavel Chekov sighed, a soft, joyful smile pulling at his blood-stained lips. His eyes slipped closed and Spock gently stroked his forehead as the young navigator’s lungs ceased to function and his heart slowly stopped.

Jim is bitten by a creature that sucks his life force, and Bones and Spock try to cure him while he's dying.

When they reach the other side, all they find is another endless vista of burning fields and the same infinite stretch of road. The best thing you can have during the apocalypse is a healthy sense of irony. Or a decent car, infinite replenishing supplies and magical powers, but the irony helps.

He is four years old. His father is dead, his father’s people glad to be rid of the traitor. He has only his mother and his mind, and both seem liable to break.

Since Jim was sixteen, he'd refused to go home for the night if Mom brought someone home. At first it'd been so Mom didn't have guys staying over as much, but now he was twenty-two, it'd become a courtesy. Silently, she paid him the same. They had a system all worked out, unspoken but up til now infallible.

"The sorceress has a destiny that must be fulfilled. She shall return. She will be called Nyneve, and she will be given another chance. Are we in agreement?"

One time they get re-born as brothers.

The lives they settle for are not sufficient.

“Oh, no, this test isn’t for you. The wager is for you. The test is for your young counterparts...do you believe in fate?"

It's not the first time he's been a woman—after the first few dozen lifetimes Merlin stop caring which body he woke up in, and he rather likes this one. He's not married to the identity—never really has been, but when the Cold War heats up and Arthur is nowhere to be found, Merlin says, fuck it. She joins MI-5. Is 00 before any other woman before, and picks the code name M.

Gwen and Lancelot cannot be allowed to get away with their betrayal of Arthur.

None of this makes any sense, really. Jim's barely laid a hand on her, if he doesn't count the occasional hand-up over difficult terrain, or accidental (mostly accidental) groping when an explosion throws his bridge crew around, and Jim doesn't count that, because if he counted that he'd be at third base with Keenser by now.

This is the punishment Arthur devised for him, he realizes; betrayal and disloyalty repaid with unforgiving, implacable forgetfulness.

To be voiceless was terrifying, but to use silence as a weapon was somehow worse.

This has been the worst day of Arthur’s life. Arthur shoves Merlin into the lockers as hard as he can, relishes the thud of Merlin’s body against metal and the whoosh of his lost breath. "You little fucking shit," he says.

Of course Spock is the one who programmed it, and of course, he's there at the trial. Kirk will look back on that later and realize it's not as accidental as it seemed.

Arthur never thought he'd grow to hate the feeling of safety in Merlin's presence.

It was so obvious, Arthur thinks to himself sometimes. He was so fucking obvious all the time.

Arthur's nineteen when he makes his first kill.

The last thing Spock ever remembers is a mission going horribly wrong.

CREEPY COMMENT!FIC IS CREEPY.

Merlin's immortality proves to be both a blessing and a curse as he watches the cycle of reincarnation pass him by. Being repeatedly reunited with Arthur only to lose him again takes its toll. But this—this is not a solution he ever would have wished for.

It is, as Ron has discovered, almost unmentionably nasty being in love with your best friend. Especially if you’re not sure if you’re really in love. Or what love is.

Two little girls, all grown up. A short history of events for B.B. and Nikki.

Everything's just fine and beautiful between the world's most lovely mutants. No, really. It is.

In 1964, he loses his second great lottery of life, and gets on a plane to Vietnam.

He comes to America in 1946, and in 1964, he wishes he hadn’t.

Sex with a telepath can be the worst thing imaginable, because he knows all your fears--and because you can never be sure you're consenting.

Written for the kmeme, "an AU where Erik is the idealistic, peace-loving one and Charles is the cynical, realistic one when it comes to mutant-human relations." CIA!Wild Child!jaded!Charles x idealistic!Erik AU.

It is a truth (almost) universally acknowledged that a single man sucking dick is more gay than a man getting his dick sucked. This is why Charles Xavier's knees are scuffing against cheap hotel carpet, why his palms are pressed against thin hotel wallpaper. It isn't the first time he's been in this position, and it isn't even his first time with Erik. It's never been the other way around, but here's the thing about Charles: he's willing to take one for the team.

Voldemort has just placed himself on the side of the Muggleborns.

Luna says it was Cho who started it all, yes, indeed, but this game is all Luna’s idea.

Hermione knew exactly how long it took for a human body to burn.

From what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold.