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 174/?

[tahariel.livejournal.com]

“Please,” Charles says, face flushed and eyes very blue, hair mussed as though he’s already been debauched once, left rumpled and strewn across the bedclothes. “Please, love.” When Erik bends to press his lips to Charles’ throat he lets out a moan that goes straight to Erik’s cock, leaves him wonderstruck all over again even as he’s running his hands over all that bared skin, pale and freckled from old sunshine. When Charles wraps his arms around the backs of Erik’s shoulders and arches up against him he can feel the cool outer surface of Charles’ bracelets rubbing against his shoulderblades, a distinct hum that he has come to associate with home, with love.

He worships Charles’ body with his mouth, lets Charles gasp and writhe underneath him as Erik sucks him off, and wishes, not for the first time, that every night could be like this, instead of the nights where Charles turns his face away, turns his back, and Erik cannot sleep for hours, for wanting him.



V

When Charles murmurs, “Love you,” as Erik slips out of bed the next morning, it makes it all worth it, all over again.



VI

“They have not changed,” Azazel says sharply, leaning forward over the polished surface of the conference table. “Still they hate us, wish us dead. We see it in the camps whenever we go there. Why would we let these humans go when all that will happen is they will start the cycle again?”

The windows in here are tall and graceful, letting in the late summer sunlight to gleam across the glossy furniture. It makes Azazel look particularly stark, red and black and sharp, like a knife. “If it were up to me, they would not have been left alive, let alone loose,” he finishes, and sits back. Behind him his tail is rigid and uncoiled, full of the tension that he is trying to hide.

It’s hard to disagree. Magneto still remembers the sound of the shots, the tacky sensation of Mystique’s blood drying on his hands, his shirt, his face, drawing tight as it clotted and congealed on his skin, catching his face and trapping it in its worst, most hateful expression.

Azazel occupies Mystique’s seat now, at Magneto’s right hand. They never discuss it.

On the other side of the table Emma sighs, cupping her cheek in one manicured hand in the affected way she adopts when confronted with something she thinks unbearably stupid. “And what do you propose we do, keep them there indefinitely?” she asks, raising one pale eyebrow in a perfectly sarcastic curve. “If we didn’t kill them immediately, there’s no way we can do so now without causing a civil war. Politically we’re stronger than we were back then. And we cannot keep the humans in the camps forever, not with the drain on our resources and the slow chipping away of our political capital. It’s simply not possible.”

The other mutants around the table murmur among themselves, glancing between the two lieutenants as they glare at one another, white against red, then at Magneto, trying to gauge his position no doubt. He keeps his face impassive, sits still and imposing in his chair at the head of the table, but inside -

“What are you proposing?” Elixir asks from further down, looking up from his briefing with curiosity on his face. “Rehabilitation?”

- inside, Magneto is fighting a war between his feelings and his practicality.

It’s been four years since they set up the encampments to contain those humans judged to be the biggest risks, since he put up the fences to lock them away the same way the Nazis had his family, his whole people, everyone they didn’t think deserved to live among ‘decent’ folk. Unlike the Nazis, Erik tells himself in the early hours of the morning when he lies awake going over every inch of that decision, every choice and every step, unlike those the Nazis had taken, these people were murderers, arsonists, rioters and merchants of hate, selling their prejudice onto the rest of the population, a drop of poison in the water, spreading. It is exactly the same as what was done to him, and it is not the same at all.