round 3 overflow post

[starkmodistries.livejournal.com]

Round 3 Overflow Post

This post is for Round 3 fills only. We ask that when a round hits 8500 comments, fillers begin moving their fills to this post.

Format:
SUBJECT LINE -- Round #, short description of fic (ex: "Alex/Hank, lab partners")
--- Link to the prompt
--- Text of the prompt

--- Link to the fill
OR
--- Entire text of the fill

EXAMPLE:
Prompt: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=1038472#t2038174

Charles/Erik -- Charles is a bakery owner whose most frequent customer is Erik.

Fill: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=0139482#t4502942

Charles started off the morning the same way he always did...

Comments

FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 167/? TW: CHARACTER DEATH

[tahariel.livejournal.com]

The helmet lies heavy on his head and neck, pressing down along with the cape and adding so much weight, today. Normally he feels as though he is used to them, but today… Magneto paces back and forth on the crushed grass underfoot, restless and on edge. The staging is broad, and open, surrounded by guards but essentially visible from all around, making it into a spectacle. Bread and circuses, Charles had said last night. Kill a few vestal virgins and they’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand. From the fenced-off backstage area it’s difficult to see the extent of the crowd, but they can hear them loud and clear, a cacophony of competing voices, buzzing like a disturbed hive. It’s a beautiful day, skies clear and bright blue, sun shining. Emma probably arranged it this way - he’s heard her mention a young weatherworker a few times, a promising talent.

The sun is hot on the top of his head, slowly heating through the helmet and making him sweat under the heavy fabric of the cape and tunic, skin slick and uncomfortable. There’s bunting. When did he become someone who has bunting when he gives a speech?

Grimacing, he goes over his speech once more, flipping through the cue cards Rogue had prepared for him. The tip of her tongue had caught in the corner of her mouth as she’d carefully printed each one out on her typewriter, making sure there were no misplaced commas or awkward typos. She’d wished him good luck this morning. There’s coffee laid out to one side, a whole spread of food and refreshments which the others had at least picked at, but he has no desire to even look. Not when he’s this keyed up on adrenaline and focused so tightly, goal in sight. He can feel every artery and vein in his body, a rushing sensation like liquid metal running through him, pulsing and tingling under the skin.

He looks out at the massed people waiting for them to come out, waiting for him, forces his spine to iron, unbendable, sets his shoulders back, broad and strong. Show no weakness. Let them see a leader, like him or not. Let them see him unbowed, capable, a force to be reckoned with and one to have on their side. Let them see the reminder of his power behind him, that he was once their hero who finished an evil man. Let him be that again.

“Hey.”

When he turns, Mystique smiles up at him with teeth that shine very white against the deep blue of her skin, the harsh, gorgeous red of her hair, beautiful, beautiful, and says, “It’s time.”

He manages to let his mouth twitch into a curve for a moment for her, and does not sigh when she reaches up to adjust the lay of his cape, tugging at it until the clasp at his throat is level. “Let’s go,” he says, and she nods, takes up her place at his right shoulder, makes room for Emma to take his left.

Together they push aside the curtains at the foot of the steps, step out into the limelight, and the crowd roars as they climb the steps, one by one, carefully paced and dignified, leaders.

Together the women pause as he steps up to the podium, lets his hands fall open onto its surface, grips the edges, leans forward, and looks.

There are thousands of people here, crammed all around the scattered trees and sculptures, on the pathways and the grass, men and women and mutants and humans, adults and children, looking at him with anything from disgust to respect to awe, but as he looks at them they slowly fall silent, waiting for him to speak. Behind them the towering shape of the New York skyline juts above the trees, much closer but less imposing than the far-off silhouette of Liberty behind him, where he had come out of the water a vigilante and crossed back over a king in the making.

A hot simmer of excitement is rising in his chest, an energy he cannot describe, like the feel of metal bowing to his will.