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[personal profile] acquiet
meme nicked from [livejournal.com profile] lawyerdown

Tropes fic meme: Below are some fandom cliches - pick one and give me a pairing (and some details if you want) and we'll see what I can come up with.

Each trope can only be picked once; pairings and fandoms can be re-used.

Preferred fandoms: X-Men First Class, Doctor Who, Sherlock, Torchwood (not Miracle Day), Supernatural


01. genderswap - but the song remains the same [Doctor Who, Eleven]
02. bodyswap the mirror does not reflect the soul [Doctor Who, Eleven and Rory]
03. drunk!fic
04. huddling for warmth - your love warms me like a fire in my mind [X-Men First Class, Charles/Erik]
05. pretending to be married
06. secretly a virgin love me tender, love me sweet [X-Men: First Class, Charles/Erik]
07. amnesia
08. cross-dressing
09. forced to share a bed
1o. truth or dare Reason Why Raven Darkholme Is Never Allowed To Make Decisions Number 32 [X-Men First Class, Charles/Erik]
11. historical AU
12. accidental-baby-acquisition my father didn't have days like these [Torchwood, team]
13. apocalypse fic
14. telepathy your lips are sealed (but your mind is an open book) [Sherlock BBC, Molly]
15. high school/college AU

Date: 2011-07-12 03:14 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
01, Doctor Who, Eleven
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
If you change one thing about someone – just a minor detail, perhaps, like their eye colour – just how much would it change them?

How much would you have to change before they are a different person?


It was an accident, really.

It wasn’t how it was supposed to go.


A trip to a far away planet in a far off galaxy, just a holiday, somewhere to relax – Amy’s specification, and she knows now that she should have been more specific. Maybe that little planet with the seven moons and grass the colour of sapphires. They’d had fun there.

Tripping and stumbling down the dusty roads, drunk on adrenalin and a cocktail of drinks, the names of which none of them could quite get right, Amy and Rory listened to the Doctor philosophize on life and the universe, more wrapped up in each other than they ever were on the TARDIS as his words fold around them and become bright, bright, shapes and suddenly there is someone there, and he’s shouting and –


The Doctor doesn’t know what is happening.

He’s changing changing changing (regeneration? his mind thinks) but
it’s
... different


Irreversible, the Doctor says, a hand on the screen and a look in his (her?) eyes that they don’t quite understand – of course they wouldn’t, they haven’t grown used to something over a thousand years, don’t quite understand.


It won’t change anything, they think. Still the same person, they think. (but her mind works with a subtle difference and she knows that it won’t be the same, it won’t ever be the same.)


The next planet they’re on, she introduces herself as the Doctor and tells them that she’s here to help, there’s no need to be afraid, and they laugh at her. Why wouldn’t they? What good could she do for them, these huge men with their huge weapons? She is a woman and all she has is herself and a name that nobody recognises as hers.

She didn’t realise how difficult it would be, a Time Lady instead of a Time Lord, thought of as weak and in need of defending.


When had he ever needed defending?


There is a silence in the TARDIS, overpowering and uncomfortable as they try to ignore the large polka dot elephant in the room. The Doctor hates it, hates it, hates it. Rory looks at her with sympathy and Amy looks at him with confusion, because she is fine with it now, she knows that it’s not going to change no matter how much she wants it to.


She is him and he is her and they are the same, no matter what people say.


She just wishes people could see that.

Date: 2011-07-12 03:46 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] shayzgirl.livejournal.com
10. XMFC Erik/Charles plz :D
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
It had been Raven’s idea to break out the drinks to celebrate their ‘newfound teamness’.

The cheap vodka was gone now, the empty bottles rolling on the floor underneath Sean’s feet as he giggled at the one in his arms. There were two bottles of Charles’ whiskey and several glasses and everyone at the table was looking at least a little tipsy by now (Erik seemed to have an impressively high alcohol tolerance).

Raven looked up from her place under Hank’s arm. “Ooh! Ooh!” she exclaimed, waving her arms about and almost hitting Alex in the face. “We should play Truth or Dare!”

Charles looked at her, attempting to look disapproving but instead looking like a lost puppy. “Raven, we shouldn’t.”

The younger members of the team looked disappointed at this, and Alex muttered something unsavory about stuffy old professors that Charles pretended not to hear while Erik snorted with less dignity than he might want.

“What’s wrong, Charles? Afraid we might find out some dark secret?” He grinned at his friend.

Charles looked as affronted as it was possible for one to look while being utterly smashed. “All right, then.” He stared intently at Erik as though he had forgotten that he had the ability to read minds and was instead trying to discover the truth in his eyes. “You have pretty eyes.” He slurred, leaning forwards.

Erik blinked at him, but nobody else reacted, as they were too busy arguing amongst themselves over who would go in what order before Raven declared imperiously that Charles should go first, seeing as how it was his house.

“Shouldn’t we go from oldest to youngest or something?” he asked, really not looking to be the first one to be embarrassed. This offer was rejected by everyone at the table, and Erik was getting a decidedly Not Nice gleam in his eye.

Erik leaned forwards on the table. “Okay, Charles,” he said, swirling his whiskey. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” Charles said promptly, then looked as though he regretted it.

“Ever had a threesome?”

Charles grinned. “Erik, my friend, I was at Oxford. What do you think?”

Sean groaned. “Come on, Professor. You’re meant to answer it.”

Raven spluttered and Hank looked shocked as Charles rolled his eyes and corrected his answer to, “You know, they really were rather flexible,” following it up with a rather wistful look.

There was a brief discussion over whether or not Charles was telling the truth, but it stopped when he interrupted them with honestly, why would I lie? Unless you want me to show you it? and they quickly moved on to the next person.

Raven beamed as she answered Alex’s question with a confident, “Dare.”

“I dare you to...” he trailed off for a moment before hitting upon an idea. “I dare you to be the Professor for the next hour.”

“Oh, please.” Raven rolled her eyes as she flickered into a perfect copy of her brother. “That’s easy.”

Raven smiled brightly and wiggled in her chair until she was sitting exactly like her brother. Alex glared, realising that he hadn’t chosen well and the game moved on to the next person.

Two hours later, and Raven was still Charles except now Charles was dressed as Raven. Hank was wearing his underwear over his trousers and happily attempting to explain physics to an unconscious Sean, while Alex pretended to be a seal. All of the (safer) metal objects in the room were currently attached to either Erik or the ceiling, apart from the spoon that was currently caressing Charles’ face as Erik watched it, fascinated.

“ - Charles.” Raven mumbled something with an odd look.

The two men peered at her blearily. “Bwuh?” Charles managed intelligently, as Erik settled for a “Huh?”

She repeated her dare for Erik, slower. “I dare you to kiss Charles.” and looked satisfied with herself for coming up with something that Erik most likely wouldn’t want to do.
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com

Erik smiled and leaned towards Charles, but missed and fell to the floor, dragging the other man down with him.

“Oh. Hello.” Charles stared at him. “Are we supposed to kiss?”

Erik nodded, and his friend leaned down and kissed him. The cutlery in the ceiling suddenly dropped to the floor, and Raven shrieked as she was attacked by falling spoons, but Erik wasn’t paying an awful lot of attention to her because Charles was doing something with his tongue and - oh.

The next morning Charles didn’t know where his wine bottles had gone to, or why exactly there were dancing spoons on the kitchen table, and Sean and Alex were insisting that they had absolutely no idea why the local bakery had given them three dozen custard doughnuts and the number for the Alcoholics Anonymous, but everyone agreed that they were never letting Raven choose games ever again.

Date: 2011-07-12 03:55 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] powdered-opium.livejournal.com
06, X-Men. :D

Date: 2011-07-13 03:57 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
Do you have any particular pairing in mind or is anything okay?

Date: 2011-07-13 03:58 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] powdered-opium.livejournal.com
Really, anything is okay. :D
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
sincere apologies for the terribleness of this fic and the title. good god what is that title

Erik asks Charles what he knows about him and he thinks that his heart stops for a minute when he says everything because that’s not fair, it’s not fair that without his permission he picked Erik’s brain apart and put it back together again like a jigsaw, learning Erik more thoroughly than anyone else, than he had any right to - and he knows. He has to know.

It’s not that he’s ashamed of it; he’s not, he have no need to be. Hunting down Nazis is a busy life and although he has wanted (their soft curves would be pliable and wondrous beneath his hands, their hard lines smooth and dangerous) he has never caved.

He hesitates for a split second, debating whether or not he should find out exactly what ‘everything’ entails and if it is a good thing or not, before he keep walking and doesn’t look back. He doesn’t think he wants to know.



Teenagers are highly sexual creatures, he realises a week or so later, after interrupting several would-be Moments between Raven and Hank (and really, he couldn’t understand why someone so proud of who she was would be at all interested in someone who was afraid of his own skin, who wanted to be anyone other than who he was). It does nothing to clear his mind of the meeting with Charles, who seems to be the only sensible person in the building.

At least, that’s what he thinks until he catches Charles averting his gaze quickly when Erik leans over and the way a faint blush rises to his friend’s cheeks sometimes when Charles looks at him.

It only gets worse from there.



He must be imagining it. Charles wouldn’t - couldn’t -

Charles was sweet, innocent. He wouldn’t like Erik - hard and ruthless and determined to kill.



For another month he tries to adjust to it; slowly going insane as Charles tries and fails not to be obvious. It wouldn’t be right for him to do anything, Charles probably doesn’t know that he’s doing it, probably hasn’t noticed the effect he’s having on his friend (god, he hates that - ‘my friend’, and he wonders if Charles looks at all of his friends like that, but he shuts down those thoughts quickly).



Then one night they’re drunk in a small town in a small state and Erik knows that this is going to be terrible.



Charles is a handsy drunk, attaching himself to Erik and refusing to let go. They’re in their room at a motel identical to the many others they’ve been in during this trip, except in those rooms there was no drunk Charles trying to put his hand down Erik’s pants.

Erik might be tipsy, but he’s sober enough to be anxious (not that he’d ever admit it, no way) and tries to stop him.

“Charles, we can’t,” he says, as gently as he can as he tries to remove his friend from his body. He shoves him away slightly, but it’s useless.

“Why not?”

Charles pushes him onto a bed and clambers on top of him. Someone groans and he doesn’t know if it is him or Charles, and really at this point he doesn’t really care. He rolls them over and pins the other man down.

“I can’t - “ I haven’t.

Blue eyes - so blue, how can they be so blue? - look up and him. A grin and a murmur in his ear assure him that that really wouldn’t be a problem.
From: [identity profile] powdered-opium.livejournal.com
I only just realised I'd neglected to reply to this! Apologies a thousand times; for I am an idiot, albeit one with currently very limited Internet access anyway because I'm on holiday.

But, this is lovely, and sweet, and made me smile, and I've kept re-reading it constantly, and yes I even love the title. Thank you! <3

Date: 2011-07-12 07:09 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] economic.livejournal.com
X-Men, Charles/Erik or gen/ensemble fic, 04 - huddling for warmth.
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
coldcoldcoldpaincold your thoughts stutter and stop like a child’s toy train and you barely recognise them as your own, they are distant and a whisper. Quiet. Everything is drowned out by the beating of your heart (focus on the thump-thump, thump-thump) and the in-out, in-out repetition of your breaths.

The cold is seeping in through the sheets and your clothes, invading your body and your brain like some unwanted inescapable visitor, and you shudder as it chills you to the bone. You don’t know what you are doing. You don’t know what you are thinking, everything is frozen solid like a block of ice.

Erik is here again, back in the room with you after trying to find something to keep the two of you warm, you can hear his footsteps heavy on the ground even as he tries to keep quiet. His mind is a constant mantra of mustn’t disturb him don’t know what to do help help help and you want to tell him that it’s okay everything well be all right it’s okay but you can’t move and it’s so cold

you shiver
focus
try to focus

but all you can think of is how you can’t feel your arms or legs and you are just
so cold

There is a body pressed against your back, a familiar weight that you gladly welcome, and arms around your waist - the warmth of it burns you and you try to push in, you need more, more, more. You want to share the warmth, to climb inside and live under his skin forever, warm and content. You force yourself to turn around and curl into him, breathing him in and settle your face in the crook of his neck. Legs tangled and bodies pressed tightly together, you are too wrapped up in each other to tell where one begins and the other one ends, and you want to stay like this forever (but not like this, when you are so desperate for warmth that you would happily jump into a fire).

You reach out with your mind, lazy tendrils of thought and feeling touching his and it’s so brilliant and bright you think your might be blinded. We’ll be alright, a barely-there whisper echoes in your mind, reverberates off your skull and you hold him even tighter.

Date: 2011-07-12 07:13 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] bakerstdivision.livejournal.com
02., DW, Rory + Eleven
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
Really, Rory isn’t sure why he puts up with this any more. The Running For Our Lives Wednesday and the Oh Dear Rory’s Dead (Again) Saturday and Oops I Destroyed An Alien City Sunday. After a while, it gets to be quite tiresome.

And did he mention the Oh Dear Rory’s Dead (Again) Saturday? That got really old really fast.

This, however, was new. And new wasn’t always good, oh no. When one is with the Doctor, one learns that new is synonymous with flashing red lights around a bright sign spelling out ‘DANGER.’

Really, they should have known that the rather large and glowing machine wouldn’t have been good for playing with.

Now that he thinks about it, he could swear that there was ominous music playing when they arrived on the planet.

The Doctor pokes and prods at his face and laughs with a childish delight that Rory just can’t stay angry with, because really, there is nothing more ridiculous that watching yourself be a 900-something year old alien who acts like a three year old who has just discovered something new.

Rory-Doctor sighs and walks towards the Doctor-Rory. And promptly trips. How on earth does the Doctor manage to walk in this body, with all of it’s angles and ridiculous proportions and -

Amy is laughing at him.

He picks himself up off the ground and manages to cross the room without falling over anything else.

“We have to fix this,” and wow, it sounds odd to hear his words come from someone else's mouth.

It sounds even weirder to see himself go off on a rambling, scientific spiel about genes and biology and temporal spasms or something; the words merge into one and Rory nods along with Amy, pretending to understand.

(He also pretends to miss the way Amy gives them both thoughtful looks with a look in her eye that could only lead to badness.)

Date: 2011-07-13 12:02 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] cantseethesky.livejournal.com
OMGOMGOMGOOMGOGMGOMGOG

THIS EXCITES ME SO I'M GONNA IGNORE THE RULES AND DO TWO

15. Sherlock/John [With Dr Watson the Biology teacher and Sherlock the chemistry prodigy who is absolutely useless at anatomy please please please please]

AND/OR

11. Sherlock/John [or Mycroft/John or anything else really] I don't care what period but I want Rich!Sherlock or Mycroft and MiddleClass!John preferably in an AU universe where homosexual marriages are usual pleeeaeaaasssee [so the barrier is just class] kdfjsgbdfkj and maybe some recitation of some of the poetry you sent me skdfghjbskdjfn

THANK YOU AND GOODBYE

Date: 2011-07-18 05:45 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
11. Sherlock/John [or Mycroft/John or anything else really] I don't care what period but I want Rich!Sherlock or Mycroft and MiddleClass!John preferably in an AU universe where homosexual marriages are usual pleeeaeaaasssee [so the barrier is just class]

oh my god sekh what
this isn't comment fic
that's like 50k AU




i will tryyyy

Date: 2011-07-18 02:59 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ikchen.livejournal.com
14. telepathy: Sherlock.
a) Someone is secretly telepathic.
or
b) When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
It started when you were a child and straining to hear what your parents said in the kitchen downstairs, late at night.

Whispers at start, i hate you why are you doing this to our family you are ripping us apart and then louder, louder, louder, until they are speaking in your ear, just for you to hear. Their thoughts weave their way around your mind, so tightly that you sometimes can’t tell the difference between their thoughts and yours.

You learn not to say them out loud, after the third time someone punches you in the playground and the principal called your mother.

freak freak freak goes their minds and fear fear fear say their eyes.



(once, just once, you tried to explain it to your mum. she called you a liar and threw a plate at you. a few days later she dragged you to a psychiatrist where you claimed you were just joking.)



Forensics, you decide when you are thirteen. Pathology. The dead have no thoughts for you to hear, no horrible secrets you don’t want to be burdened with. The cool still silence of their minds and the morgue sounds like heaven.



You suffer through school for years, but you end up becoming quieter and withdrawing from your peers, with their deafening frantic thoughts and frantic movements. At lunch, you spend your time seeking out places where it will be quieter. Nowhere will be silent, perfectly still like a grave (you like graves, the wide space of nothing; it’s where you are inevitably drawn when it becomes too much, everything just gets to be too much).



University is worse. People are everywhere, like ants in a colony. Moving, moving, always moving - their bodies and their minds, loud voices and louder contrary thoughts piling up on top of one another until you want to scream



you don’t scream

you are quiet
too quiet



In your second year you suffer a nervous breakdown and are institutionalised for two months.



You graduate a year late because the university insisted you ‘take a break’ and it is obvious to anyone with eyes, let alone telepathy, that the professors dislike you. It doesn’t really matter, though, as you leave with a 2:1 and top of your class.


Once you leave, you are swimming in offers from universities and hospitals, but you turn them down in order to work with the police. Your mother despairs and talks constantly of the money that you’re missing out on and the opportunities to be so much better than what you’re doing, but you tune out her words that taste like red wine on the air like you have done her red red thoughts for years.



The moment you meet Sherlock Holmes, you know that you’re in trouble.



You like him. Of course you like him. Smart, and handsome, and truthful (painfully so).

He smiles and you melt as if his smiles were made of sunbeams instead of ice cubes - you let him away with everything, from the verbal abuse he hurls at you alongside his manners that he treats more like an unfortunate tic than common decency, to using the bodies in the morgue for his various experiments.

You wish you could stand a better chance against that killer smile and that knife sharp mind, wish you could stop him from invading your space, your sanctum sanctorum.



(they pity you, the officers. the ones who work with him. your crush is as clear as day, as is his lack of interest.

it doesn’t really bother you, though. even if he were interested, you wouldn’t do it. his mind is too busy, always working hard. you like the peace being alone offers you.)


One day there is a new man standing in your morgue, quiet and unassuming though his mind tells you otherwise. (it also tells you john watson brother soldier flatmate friend).

He’s with Sherlock, grounding him. You wonder what that would be like; someone who knows and isn’t afraid, doesn’t think you’re a freak.

The thought washes over you, and is gone - you are fine on your own.
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com


Doctor Watson watches you, sometimes, curiously. His surface thoughts are bout what was on the telly last night, though, and you don't make a habit of snooping through people's brains, so you ignore it.

Once (just once) you overhear a thought about how Sherlock had better thank me for doing this to poor Molly and you freeze.

John is nice about it, though and offers to get you a cup of tea, says you're working too hard. You smile and shrug him off, but remind yourself to be more careful about Sherlock Holmes in future.
From: [identity profile] ikchen.livejournal.com
Oh. Oooh. This is marvellous! Thank you, dear!
I'm curious about John's thought, now...

Date: 2011-07-18 05:48 pm (UTC)
ext_129022: (fences)
From: [identity profile] introductory.livejournal.com
12. accidental-baby-acquisition, Torchwood Three
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
awful fic is awful. but it's better than daddy!erik

The creature gurgled and peered up at them. Torchwood, the people who were Always Ready For Anything, for once genuinely had no idea what they were supposed to do. Ianto cleared his throat. “Maybe - it would be best to keep Owen away from it.”

The man in question looked up, indignant. “I’ll have you know I’m great with kids.” He frowned and looked back down at the baby in his arms. “Now, repeat after me. Jack is a giant -”

Before he could finish his sentence, Gwen shoved Ianto out of the way and snatched the baby into her arms.

“Don’t you listen to those silly men,” she said in a ridiculous voice, contorting her face to match it. “Who’s a beautiful little boy? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”

Owen stared at her as if she had suddenly grown another head (last week there had been an alien who gave you special enzymes to do just that through a bite, so really, he couldn’t be too careful), while Ianto just glanced at her and sighed. His sister had children and had heard her speak to them like that when they were younger, so while it was certainly strange to hear the same nonsense from a co-worker, he was beginning to suspect that it was a natural instinct with women.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

Owen’s question was met with two glares.

“You don’t swear in front of children, Owen.” Gwen could be vicious when she wanted to be, and this seemed like a very good time for the doctor to back off before she used those high heeled boots for what they were probably designed for.

He retreated back to his area of the hub, hands up in a sign of surrender, and the rest of the team went back to the baby.

Tosh called to them from her place at the computers. “I still can’t find anything on where he might have come from,” she said. “There’s no CCTV on at the time he arrived.”

Doors slammed and a greatcoat swished as Jack strode down the steps. “So, someone doesn’t want us to know where our bouncing baby boy came from.”

“It looks that way,” Tosh replied, with a helpless shrug.

Jack looked at them all, reminiscing about some long ago time that will happen centuries in the future. Gwen wondered what advice he would give them. "You know," he started. "One time I gave birth." He shuddered. "Never doing that again."

Gwen smiled and looked at the wriggling bundle in her arms. "Well, then. I guess he's going to be here for a while." She glared at the team, before saying "None of you are allowed to experiment on him. No alien tech, nothing."

It looked like even having a baby at Torchwood would be boring.
ext_129022: (Default)
From: [identity profile] introductory.livejournal.com
W E E P I N G

you are amazing and horrible and fantastic and i love you
From: [identity profile] paregmenon.livejournal.com
i love you too but will you still be saying that when i write stockholm syndrome!erik/shaw

will you
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