Just how often do we get to see them this quietly happy?
(Source: gaynordicbros)
justasimplestalker:
You know, only looking at this picture did I realize how little Erik is drawn with a happy smile. This picture is so fricking happy I can’t stop looking at it.
…prob because few can do his 400 acres of teeth justice?
borednawkward:
….I actually watch those two the most the more and more I watch that movie. I honestly don’t know if they wanted romance or not, but they most certainly wanted to make it clear that Erik was determined to have Raven with him, whatever was going on. If you watch his facial expressions a certain points, he definitely has his eye on her, and wants Hank out of the picture, because Hank has the power to mess it up. I don’t think in the romance capacity, but moreso with his “cure” and his lack of appreciation for Raven’s blue appearance.
Honestly, that scene where she’s in his bed, all I can think of when I look at his face is “ha ha, gotcha!” Because that’s the point where he pretty much gets her on his side entirely as an ally.
(Not to say he didn’t want Charles with him as well. He most certainly did. Whenever Charles is in he room he barely even acknowledges Raven. But Raven was always going to end up an ally to Erik and I think Erik knew that….Charles there was always doubt…and I rambled.)
This, yes. Right in the midst of their recruitment Erik was doing some recruiting of his own. Consciously or not, he was preparing himself for the day he’d inevitably leave Charles. Listen to his speech, he freaking thought about it. And I think Charles knew. From the moment he said, “Erik, you decided to stay,” they both knew it wasn’t permanent. None of them quite expected Charles’ injury and exactly how things played out, but deep down they knew somehow it was gonna end like this, with Erik leaving, along with anyone on Charles’s team he could convince to join him.
Reconcile that with fanon: those two idiots knew all that and fell in love anyway.
(Source: firstclassconfessions)
gokuma:
readingthexmen:
The sad truth.
…Not just pain and anger
Why don’t you teach your heart to feel?
Between the Quested case and surviving on black coffee plus two cubes of sleep a day, Erik thinks he’s slowly losing his sanity. It’s been nearly a week now, exactly from the day Moira put Quested’s files on his table, since he noticed him. Never overt, the way one person catches your eyes sometimes across the street, not like he’s trying to get Erik’s attention. A man walks pass and he’s there, blink of an eye and he’s gone. And that would tick Erik’s instincts if not for the fact that the guy doesn’t look like he’s fucking trying to hide it either, like a stalker, or Shaw’s men should. (Erik would know Shaw’s men, he keeps tag on his faithful tails regularly. But not this guy.) Just standing, silent, solemn, and unfazed by the streamline crowd, like the world (insted of him) doesn’t exist. He looks like he’s always been there, wherever it is he happens to be standing, always within Erik’s peripheral vision (and that’s the thing, Erik never gets a good look at him, no mater how fast he whips around, cover be damned. But turn his head, pretend to look at something else, and he’ll be there again.)
That’s not even all of it. The thing that keeps Erik from swallowing his goddamn pride and fucking calling reinforcement like a normal person, is that the guy used to be nothing at all. Used to. Or at least Erik didn’t remember him looking like anything the first day, just a general sense that someone was there. But details came in slowly, as if Erik was the one stalking and slowly tuning his lens’ focus. The clothes came first, naturally, white shirt, washed jeans. Nothing remarkable, except it’s fucking December in New York. The next day he caught a glimpse of brown hair, walking out from Starbucks. Erik noticed it didn’t move with the wind. The forth day, over the edge of his sandwich wrap, a damn fine mouth. Erik frustrated himself trying to get a better look at it. The fifth day, this was when it got interesting, blood started to dribble from between his lips (always red, too red), a steady drip-drip-line that by the time Erik looked up from his report at 2AM, had him the guy standing in the glass door three rows over, chest and torso soaked in blood.
It’s been nearly a week now.
He gets closer each day, Erik knows. He can make out the light freckles on the guy’s collarbone now, if he squints real hard while trying not to go cross-eyed. Erik spares some thoughts while hunting down Quested’s boyfriend that he ought to be scared, ridiculous as that sounds for someone like him. But the guy doesn’t look like he’s here to harm him. He doesn’t look like he’s here to do anything, because his unchanging posture is useless and the only tell — his eyes — Erik has not seen. For all that Erik knows he’s looking, the same way he knows of the guy’s presence before he even materialized, for all that he has a good idea of the guy’s undoubtedly swell body under those tight clothes, he has not been shown his eyes.
Pity, Erik thinks on the seventh day, shoving open the door to his apartment with his shoulder before walking to the table to dump his files. Good thing he cleaned out the Chinese yesterday. He sits down on his desk chair, so much better than the jiggly office stuff, and flips on the lamp. The guy regards him silently from the windows. Well two can play this game. Erik knows, the moment he sees those eyes, the guy comes to him, finally, simple as that. The collected way he accepts this news might be a point of pride, had Erik’s ego been any smaller. As it is he just feels the anticipation of any cop seeing a case about to come to rest. He wants those eyes. Erik still hasn’t any clue about the guys name though. Pity pity pity. He could have had Alex run through his physical descriptions, see if anything comes up, but Erik caught him over the rim of his coffee and No, nothing tipped it off, Erik just knew he said No, so he dropped it. Now it’s the seventh day, kinda too late. Add his name to the gigantic pile of things Erik noted of him from all the brief looks, the shitton of questions, stuff he put under the pile of “Things Erik Lehnsherr Wants To Know About Mysterious Guy” that he’s since shortened to simply, “Want.”
Something sharp shoves past his ribs from behind, stops just shy of penetrating his chest, before it’s viciously yanked out and shoved in again, three inches under. Erik swallows, tries to, the blood keeps welling up, past his lips, starts to dribble down his shirt. Backstabbed, no wonder, he was always facing me, he thought dazedly. Behind him, Quested twisted his knife for good measure, sending a flood of new hot blood up and out again. Steady, drip-drip-straight fucking line, there, his shirt suitably soaked, the fucking bastard. He would— shit he won’t choke, can’t, won’t— Quested’s here, that means Shaw’s back in his lair down Lower East Side, Moira’s team waiting. Right, he got this. They got this—
Quested yanks the damn thing out, knocks his fist on the side of Erik’s head. All that history. Erik tumbles to the floor, limp, chair knocked down with a loud thump. Right, landlady coming, he hears footstep and her usual mumbled complaints, around the time Quested hits the fire escape. Run Forest run, to Darwin’s team right around the corner. They got it, perfect plan. Save for one thing. They thought Erik would fight the little shit, send him running. Not walk in like a fucking pig to a slaughterhouse. But the plan was his. And may be from the moment he saw that figure across the street, he knew.
“They got Shaw. Time to go, my friend.”
A pair of hand gently pull his head into a soft lap. No callus, academic type, confirmed. And finally Erik can look straight at him, Lord but that hide-and-seek shit was annoying. A chuckle, ah yes, his voice, toss that in the list, how could he forget that. Suddenly he realizes he’s choking on his own blood, and his favorite shirt— so much for first impression. The corner of those lips pull down a bit — Mystery Guy’s shirt ain’t that much bett— well, it is now, and so does his, thank fuck for that. They’re standing up now, minding Erik’s body lolling on the floor. Erik would feel bad about his blood on the carpet, but it’s about time Mrs. Parette got it changed, shit defies Darwinism. So here he is done with life-flashback, looking at Mystery guy going “Xavier-but-call-me-Charles”, and decides to just yank him up on tiptoes by his collar and kiss the living daylight out of him (har har.) And hear this, Erik Lehnsherr doesn’t do sap, hasn’t done it all his life, so give him a fucking break in his last moment before going into the light that all that stuff about kissing making fireworks go off? Correct. His (his) in particular, is blue. Deep, soul-destroying blue.
How apt.
For these tags:
#it’s like he’s staring right at you #and you can’t look away #as he sucks in your soul #and you slowly die
