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 193/?

[tahariel.livejournal.com]

“Don’t,” Charles says between rounds two and three, once they’ve finally moved to the bed, covering Erik’s mouth with his hand and pressing his hips up into Erik’s grip as he spreads his legs for Erik to finger him open, breathless and panting. “Please, just - can you just - oh, Erik - ” and Erik complies with only the lingering sense of disquiet in the back of his mind, not enough to stop him from taking what is offered to him again when Charles asks so prettily, moans low under his breath and pulls Erik to him so he can slide inside, closer, ever closer.

Erik thinks, I will never love him more than I do now. As Charles’ mouth falls open on a low and trembling groan, his eyelids fluttering shut as his head tips back with worn-out pleasure, Erik makes a decision, buries his face in the side of Charles’ neck so the other man won’t see the devastation and love and desperation and pain written in his expression, just fucks him the way Charles loves best, pulls Charles into his arms and kisses the skin above his pulse, beating hard in the crook of his throat where Erik can hide his decision until tomorrow.

The next day will be the last day.



XXIV

It is, but not in the way he planned.



XXIV

“Charles, I need to talk to you,” Erik calls as he comes in the door, closing it behind him. It’s difficult to juggle the package he’s carrying and sliding off the helmet, but he manages it with a little assistance from his powers, placing it down on the sidetable before he turns to face the living room where Charles is perched on the windowseat again.

Emma and Azazel are sat on the couch like bookends, looking at him with steady, unblinking gazes, her legs folded neatly, his arms folded across his chest. Neither of them is wearing any metal.

“Erik,” Charles says from where he’s got his back to the glass, and if his posture is perfect, strong, his voice is breaking, trembles on his name.

For a second it’s like being hit with a wave of icewater, blood freezing in his veins with horror and disbelief; he only has a moment to think scheisse, the helmet before Emma has pinned him with her mind, reached out and caught him in place with his own muscles like a statue, stood facing them with his whole body trembling against her control and everything he’s ever heard about to use against telepaths rushing to the forefront of his mind.

Emma just looks bored, raises an eyebrow as though it’s no trouble to keep him there, and maybe it isn’t. “Don’t bother, honey. Once I’m in I’m in.”

There is literally nothing he can do; when he tries to reach for metal she’s blocked that off too, so Erik simply stands in his own living room and stares across the room at the love of his life and cannot decide between betrayal, guilt, self-recrimination or fury, the sheer animal reaction he would usually have defaulted to curbed by Emma’s mind, so he cannot even lash out, remove the threat. Charles is beautiful backlit like this, broad-shouldered and messy-haired, perhaps a little wet-faced - has he been crying? Erik will kill both of his lieutenants if they’ve hurt him - and oh, he loves him, his heart is hammering in his chest like it wants to burst free and attack the pair of them by itself where he can’t, when every cell in his body is terrified for Charles.

“Oh,” Emma says, both eyebrows rising, and her blank mask falls, is replaced with surprise. “Oh, Erik. I had no idea.”

“What?” Azazel asks, his voice rough, still staring at Erik with a dark, implacable expression that is likewise broken when Emma says, “Magneto loves him. Rather desperately.”

I’ll kill you, Erik thinks as loudly as he can, and fights against her restraint on him, but it’s almost impossible to know where to begin when he cannot even find the means to move his arms, has never had to think about generating a motor impulse to clench his fists, to move his feet forward toward a threat. Leave him out of this, what do you want? What are you doing here? Get out!