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@evolutsye
X-Men: Dark Phoenix | dir. Simon Kinberg

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as a... big general disclaimer, i portray erik as a gay man and thatâs a huge part of my characterization of him. the only significant ( romantic ) relationship that i count that erikâs ever had is with magda, and he met magda when they were children and married her at 16. he loved her intensely, but it wasnât romantically, which is something he didnât discover until he was in his fifties / at the height of the AIDS crisis in america.  magdaâs impact on erik is one of the most formative influences in his life and the fact that he knows heâs gay now doesnât minimize this fact at all.
erik is also non-binary and masc-aligned genderflud but this isnât a fact that heâs actually begun to explore in any sort of real depth until recently, but he did drag occasionally in the 90â˛s and 00â˛s.
magneto and killmonger are both victims and survivors of white supremacy and the fact that their respective radicalism as a response to their oppression is treated as the Real Villain in both of their franchises is... lmao
things about my erikâs identity:
his birth name is moshe selig eisenhardt, but went by max most of the time from a very young age besides with his close family.
he took on the name âerikâ while in hiding before being detained during the war as a tribute to his uncle erich. he identifies mostly with this name because of his fondness for his uncle and has left the name âeisenhardtâ for his past and his family. he used the eisenhardt surnname while living with magda, but after anyaâs death, and after magda left, he decided to retire it for good.
while working for the mossad in israeli, erik used âmagnusâ as a codename and eventually for an everyday alias. he never disguised himself as a romani person under this name but used it as a name with his wife in mind, still smarting from her loss. problematic comics can suck it.Â
generally, erik prefers to be called magneto. but heâs most partial to erik or magnus, depending on who itâs from. mosheâs a name heâs slowly coming back around to, but max had always been used as a name to assimilate, whether it was in germany or poland with magda, and therefore he doesnât identify with it at all.Â
X-Men: First Class (2011), dir. Matthew Vaughn.

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CHARLES.
âthey are children, erik. weâve had precious little to celebrate, and i think a small reprieve would do them all some good. âand itâs fitting, i should think. new beginnings, and all that.â charles smiles mildly, trying to encourage without pressure. it hadnât occurred to him until he was already speaking that erik might have found him presumptuous, been offended, but itâs an incredible relief that heâs not. âif it were christmas this weekend, even i couldnât stop them being distracted by that.â
acceptance starts at home, after all. fostering tolerance (and making a point) with the children is far from the only reason, or even the first reason, heâd brought this up, but it doesnât hurt, either. and it would be good for all of them, he thinksâdoing something positive together. as a team. as a family, in some way. a family erik is part of.
âŚso perhaps heâs being a bit overly sentimental, but he didnât miss how easily erik had called them the kids, either.
âiâm sure we can find everything. weâre only about an hour from brooklyn.â which means half an hour at the speeds erik likes to drive. âand, of course, iâd be honored if you could teach me the blessings. iâm afraid my hebrewâs terribly rusty, but iâm sure itâll come back to me. âi spent two years volunteering in haifa, but that was, ohâa good decade ago, now. when i was a very young man.â
the explanationâs almost an afterthought. a courtesy with the sudden awareness that erik doesnât just know these things about him. then another thought strikes him, and his expression softensâwistful and affectionate in equal parts.
ââcurious, isnât it, to think how close we might have come to meeting back then. i was in tel aviv my last month abroad. if you were there in â52, we mightâve been no more than a few kilometers apart and never realized it.â
  itâs endearing. it is. maybe from anyone else in the world, erik would be offended at the breach of the barriers heâs built around himself, around everything that happened before 1944. so many barriers that even he canât breach them without a little help. making a home anywhere, anywhere permanent at least, sets his teeth on edge because thatâs only ever been destined for failure, upheaval. still, erik can practically smell the challah bread up his nose, the scratch of the record player in their living room. the weight of his motherâs hand on his nape while they sat in a synagogue pew.Â
itâs been a long time. and since charles suggested it... erik finds heâs more than open to the idea, initial reluctance aside.Â
â iâll drive. â  because of course he will, he doesnât not drive and when he doesnât drive, heâs walking. taking a long trip to brooklyn, the borough his parents talked of but never had a chance to visit ---- ellis island, too ---- itâs tempting, too. he wants to go, and finds heâs excited in a genuine way that he hasnât felt for a long time, too. stuffing his hands in the pockets of his worn leather jacket, he finds moiraâs keys there, and meets charlesâ gaze with his own when he hears that fondness in his tone. it occurs to him that charles really never stops talking, but thatâs endearing too.Â
not finding the words for all that he has to say, erik reaches a hand to brush over charlesâ wrist, over his pulse, where the bright blue sleeves of his cardigan ride up a little to expose veins and pale skin.Â
â if i believed in fate ---- â  and he doesnât, he canât believe in fate, not when itâs all said and done,  but ---- â it would be for you. â
CHARLES.
âthere were seven kings of norway named magnus,â charles explainsâa reasonable enough thing to do, even if he couldnât feel the little wave of surprise at his choice of descriptor. one intention indeed, but with only a few months left overseas, he finds heâs feeling rather reckless, the prospect of pursuing thisâthis, wherever it would lead, with a dangerous yet somehow stunningly familiar stranger practically radiating interest, far less tempered by the caution heâd have if he were at home in new york. besides, he says dangerousânot dangerous generally. mossad, heâd guess from what he saw, but the details arenât his business.
âyou have, have you?â he raises an eyebrow, and gives his watch a perfunctory check to confirm what he already knowsâhe has plenty of time before heâs due back in the east wing for his afternoon shiftâbefore he gestures to the empty chair nearest him, still smiling brightly. itâs impossible not to be aware of his own reputation, as wellâcertainly not all the opinions held of him are positive, but more than enough of them are. âmy curiosity is piqued, my friend. iâm yours for an hour yetââ
he leans in slightly closer, still keeping just enough distance to seem casual. he should keep this casual, really, because anything else would be foolish, and terribly unfair to gabby besidesâbut thereâs just⌠something he canât ignore.
ââand iâd love to know what youâve heard.â
â seven ? i had no idea my name had such regal roots. â  and it hadnât been why he chose it, the name ---- the idea of sounding royal had been far from his head when he had, after magda had left him seemingly with a piece of his soul still with her. enough of it to dedicate his life to this.  charles shouldnât distract him from it, this life he leads, but magnus allows it. is allowing it. and he wants it. he wants. he hasnât in a long time, he registers that much, hasnât thought to. Â
stupid that all of this is from a few exchanged glances in a cafe, but heâs too far in now to leave it seems. one conversation and heâs already too far in. Â
he ought to sit, now, and he does, pulling out the stool beside to charles to sit. heâs not due for a long time and theyâll be talking for all of it, heâs sure. gets a little closer too, just close enough to be friendly without anyone asking questions and heâs confused. heâll pour over it later, the feeling, the draw, something heâs buried like many other things he has for years, especially the feeling he gets when he sees someone particularly handsome. charles is lithe, small, but that draws him more, beyond his demeanor, the openness toward him.Â
â well, iâve heard youâre brilliant, and you seem to be living up to your reputation, charles. are you a doctor yet ? â
Itâs Special Agent Poindexter, isnât it?
charles.
itâs impossible, charles thinks, not to feel some sort of draw toward this manâhe has an intensity about him, a presence, thatâs been pulling his eyes toward him every time they happen to be in the same room together for the past month. heâs never gotten closer than thatâmagnus is unusually difficult to read, even when he focusesâcarries pain with him that feels like sifting through shards of glass to look through, and well, thatâs not unusual here, but heâs also managed the exceptional feat of looking thoroughly like a man not to be trifled with even when smiling.
dr. shomron mentions him every once in a while, thinks of him with fondness and quite a lot of respect, and some of the girls have certainly had their share of amorous thoughts toward tall, dark and handsome magnus, but they seem to share charlesâ assessmentâthat heâs rather lovely to look at, but difficult to approach. gabby has a shift with him occasionally, and has opinions about his strong jaw and finely muscled arms and what he might do with them that might have made another man jealous.Â
a man who didnât agree.
so: the crux of the matter is, the last thing charles is expecting on this particular tuesday afternoon is the man himself breaking the comfortable routine of making eye contact across the cafĂŠâconfident and almost friendly, even, and thereâs something even more intense about his regard directly, like thisâsomething magnetic, something deeply, profoundly familiar just beneath the surfaceâbut his eyes are alight with a dark sort of satisfaction that makes charles shiver.
âmagnus,â he repeats, offering a winning smile and pressing a finger to his temple in the guise of brushing his hair out of his eyes. blood, the glint of a knife, cracking bone, a flash of argentinian countrysideâoh, you have been a busy man, maxerikmagnus. not just a regular volunteer then, butâthatâs not entirely unusual, either. good dr. shomron has connections charles doesnât pry into and pretends heâs not aware of.
his smile doesnât falter. thatâfamiliarity, that draw is only stronger actually looking, but he canât place it. in the most inexplicable way, he finds himself reminded of ravenâthat instant connection theyâd shared as soon as heâd looked into her mind that night, years ago. he shakes magnusâs handâafter a quick, appreciative glance at the way his short sleeves show off his tanned skinâand itâs the funniest thing, the way just a simple handshake feels like a jolt of electricity shooting up his arm, quickening his pulse.Â
âvery regal. it suits you. âcharles xavier, itâs a pleasure.â
charles xavier. a name erikâs heard a few times before, from some of the nurses and the residents alike. smart charles, genius charles ------ his posh accent had made a few of the residents swoon too, particularly over whatever scientific research he happens to be on about. the general consensus is that heâs very smart and very handsome. with his boyish features, pink cheeks and even pinker lips ------ magnus doesnât allow himself to look at other men very often but heâs allowing himself to, now. thereâs something about him, beyond his looks, that draws him closer. tempts him. magnus licks along his scarred lower lip pensively. Â
a firm handshake. magnus lets his hand drop. regal ------ he canât say heâs heard that much about his romani name. he canât say heâs heard many things from anyone since he moved here with only one intention.
â charles xavier. â  magnus says the name as if to test it, the taste and feel of it in his mouth. his smile grows a little wider. realizes belatedly that he hasnât done anything like this since he was a boy and hasnât had to. anonymous faces and names in hotel rooms and bars are little compared to this flirtation and wherever itâs going. Â
an exhale escapes as he gestures to the barista.
  â iâve heard great things, and the pleasureâs mine, charles. may i buy you a cup of coffee ? â
    at first heâd thought the young man looking his way in the hospital cafe had been sparing him a chance glance, but he found himself catching his eyes more often than not for a month. itâs left magnus curious, but never enough to approach him for a long while ------ a month of passing smiles and wandering glances, more than that, because heâs always been sent out of haifa long enough to make him forget. the last assignment had been particularly brief ------ in tel aviv, where his interrogation gave him insight to more leads to doctors from the camps in argentina. itâs left him elated, and most important, confident.
magnus returns to the hospital a week later, bruised and tanned, and finds the dark-haired man ------ no older than twenty, he notes now that he looks at him long enough from the bar with a coffee in hand, and certainly younger than him ------ sitting where he usually sits, reading a newspaper. he exhales, checking his watch to ensure heâs not running late to his usual volunteer time, and rolls his shoulders to steel himself. belatedly, he realizes his palms are clammy and itâs not from the sun pouring into the room. Â
crossing to the other side of the room, magnus clears his throat, offering a curt smile when the dark-haired man looks at him. thinks something about the blue of his eyes that heâll dwell on more later, when heâs alone in his bunk. Â
but, right now, he can only look at him.
â iâve been meaning to introduce myself ------ â itâs a lie, he hasnât, he very much hasnât ---- but this is one thing heâll let stray from plan,  â i know we work in the same unit. i teach residents english, when i can. â
magnus offers his left arm, knows that the short sleeves of his polo shirt expose the scars there. the best part about living here is that he chooses who he is ------ who people see him as, what they know of him. heâs not a german boy named max eisenhardt, or a red army refugee named erik lehnsherr. heâs not defined by any numbers or any names anywhere on his body or beyond it.Â
â my name is magnus. â / @praegressus

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endless gifs of Benjamin Poindexter: Please (3x02)
WILSON
( redwing hops one foot, from a knuckle to samâs thigh, and the other to the wood slats of the bench. preening when sam strokes behind his head. )    he barely needed it.     ( an inside joke. )
        heâs not bothering you, is he?  i know not everyone thinks seeing a falcon is - part of their average day.Â
  oh, iâm not angry. i think itâs extraordinary, even.  ( he reaches out a hand, both an olive branch for the miscommunication and to offer his hand to the falcon. the other birds, city pigeons and otherwise, seem to chirp louder where they sit. ) Â
heâs remarkably well-behaved.
CHARLES
@evolutsye
âAHâERIK, A WORDââ heâd picked up a passing thought as he, hank and moira had been stocking up in the produce aisleâa scattering of words, images, dates in the mind of a mother brushing by with her toddler on her hip, tinged with warmth and just a touch of holiday stressâ ârosh hashanah is this saturday and sunday, yes? youâll have to forgive me, my friend, i hadnât thought to ask if youâre practicing. and i have stayed out of your head like you asked, mind you.â
though charles had already made adjustments to hankâs meal plan for the week, just to be safeâor rather, to hankâs credit, charles had raised his eyebrows as hank suggested pork chops for dinner and he very quickly got the message.
âthere are synagogues in the area, andâif youâd want toâyouâre welcome to the car.â the car being moiraâs car. but sheâll agree to this. âor if thereâs anything youâd want to do here, of course.â
erik doesnât think heâs spent as much time reading ------ or doing much else beyond legwork in tracking down schmidt, mind you ------ as he has here. charlesâ library seems endless, full of first editions and other languages. in downtime, between training with charles and the seldom occasion in which he does sleep, he reads. heâs pouring over a first edition when charles finds him, tucked away in the corner of his library under a light that makes him more rosy than not. Â
a brow raises when he looks up at him, endearment and amusement alike twinging at the corner of his mouth.
â i hadnât thought of it, but yes, it is. â that smirk doesnât leave his features, though his eyes go elsewhere, for a moment. to a different life than this. his faith is one of the few things he doesnât associate with schmidt, but observation aside from diet has been the last thing on his mind since leaving the mossad years ago. â though i havenât gone to a synagogue in years, charles. â
an exhale escapes as a lithe finger trails along the engraving of the spine of the book as he sets it aside, standing at his full height. he feels oddly exposed now, vulnerable now that charles looks at him in that way of his, and he doesnât like it. the memory of rosh hasahanah ------ eating applies drenched in honey, fresh warm challah bread, his motherâs weather-worn features over candlelight ------ it makes him feel even warmer. he hadnât known he had that, either.
â when i lived in tel aviv, i memorized the mazhor ------ so we could do this here, instead of a synagogue. â pause. uneasy, but quickly gaining confidence, though not enough to attend a service just yet. â we could look for foodstuffs around westchester, but i donât know if it would be wise to distract the kids from the mission at hand. â
 forgive me for intruding but iâm curious ------ have you trained that bird  ?   /  @wingedcap
Killmonger being 100% willing to call anyone and anything out.

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âYou can convince me to do anything.â
HANNIBAL
the shouting makes him flinch for an instantâhe canât help it, and for that moment he can do nothing but open and close his mouth helplessly until he can shake off the fear. the man is not afraid of him and behind the anger is recognition, hannibal thinks, or maybe heâs just rationalizing things to tell himself he isnât going to die. the knife is gone andâhow did you do thatâhe canât answer that any more than he could answer how do you breathe, how do you blinkâ
(it is 1944 and mischa is being ripped out of his arms, take the girl, she has more meat on her and hannibal is crying and then he is crying in her voice, take me, take me, and his wrists are so small he can pull them out of the shackles and stumble after her on legs that are too short, and then their hands are on him and thereâs a sick crack and painpainpain and a toothy smile above him as he watches black feathers ripple over his torsoâpone schmidt will pay us for this one, if it lives says the smiling man and then mischa is dead and everything is darkness.)
âiâi canâsince i was a childââ he canât find the words to explain to the man, so he elects to demonstrate and in a breath he is the man, or the best he can mirror him. sometimes in the dark he doesnât quite get the colors. it is in the manâs voice that he says:Â âi donât know how.â
and then he is himself again.
âhannibal lecter.â he cannot even think to lie. he stares down at the papers around him and does not try to go for the knife, either, as much as he wants to. he is not sure what to say that will make this man not want to kill him, but he does not trust himself to figure it out through lying or threats any more than by telling the truth. âi am here to avenge my sister. this man, he has information about the soldiers who killed her.â
he has seen some names in the pile of documents, names he hopes to connect with locations, addresses even, but his german comprehension is too poor to be certain of that at a glance.
âi am his enemy, not yours.â
FOR AN INSTANT, MAGNUS LOOKS INTO HIS OWN EYES, AS IF LOOKING INTO HIS OWN REFLECTION. then the boy stares back at him, so young.  he knows his own path has gone wayward, and maybe he canât imagine anything after finally killing schmidt, but at one point, magnus had been this young, too. outward appearances mean nothing and he realizes that, but innately magnus knows that hannibal lecter is not older than eighteen years old. an exhale escapes as he opens his palm, the german-engraved blade flying back into his palm to tuck back into his holster. thereâll be no use for this tonight.
brow furrowing, magnus looks him over. theyâre the same, which fills him with relief ---- for so long, the only other person like him in the world had been schmidt, and the thoughtâs always filled him with existential dread. it only made sense that he was his creator, then.  but now, this singular encounter puts all of that into question and his thoughts race a mile a minute. hannibalâs story is one heâs heard so many times before, in his time in poland and then the mossad and then, briefly, tel aviv.  heâs lost count. but little has led back to schmidt until now, not like this.
â  my name is magnus.  â  he looks out at the nazi memorabilia in the office around them, nose scrunching in disgust, before meeting hannibalâs gaze once more.  Â
 â  this man worked as an operative at auschwitz during the war, where my family was murdered and i was ------ experimented on. he has information about the man who did that to me. the catholic church gave him clemency, as iâm sure you know. have you found anything of use in the documents,  hannibal  ?  â Â