Faith/ fanfiction writer with the commonsense of a pine cone/ current o̶b̶s̶e̶s̶s̶i̶o̶n̶s̶ interests include Sons of Anarchy and Daredevil Masterlist/ Doggo's tumblr / Doggo's Instagram/
Consciousness flickers in Scott like a flame, his senses lighting up before fizzling out and engulfing him in darkness. Pieces of the world revealing themselves in frantic flashes, the squeak of trolly wheels on tiled floor and the painful pinch of an IV being guided under his skin. The moments brush by quickly, later Scott wonders if they were dreamt up figments of his imagination, his mind constructing solutions to the problem of brushing up against death.
Warmth is the first concept Scott grasps as he fully awakens, the heat bordering on the edge of uncomfortable. Weighted blankets are draped over his form, a cocoon of fabric pinning his heavy limbs. Only for Scott there’s no great escape to a world of vivid colour and flight. There’s only sweat beading down his face with every movement and twinges of pain lighting up in his left wrist. The pain ignites flashes of memory, of bone deep cold and a streak of silver movement, and then of a man adorned in white, frosty eyes inspecting him like he’s a mildly interesting bug. The last memory is particularly vivid. Phantom hands can still be felt encasing his wrist after he’d been poked, prodded and finally fixed. The doctor’s hands had held the limb aloft as a thin steel band is manipulated, the metal rippling and flexing before settling securely on his wrist.
Gently cracking one eye open, the sight of a med bay greets him. Similar and yet different to the one he’d been taken to on the plane. Pure crimson in his vision signals that the walls and furniture were a pure alabaster shade. Despite the room’s larger stature it remained just as remote, the neighbouring beds empty. There are no windows, and no hints of the outside world, just an inconspicuous picture of field crowed with cows, the black and white mammals staring with blank gazes. A few beds between them there’s a single door, likely locked. One exit. No view of outside. He checks off the facts in his head. Overlooking the cot an IV stands, tubes feed a dark greyish substance into his bloodstream. Drugged with unknown substance. Likely effects: weariness.
Inches beyond where the needle is inserted, a thin metal bracelet is secured, a few centimetres in width, grey and dull in appearance, tight but not restrictive. His eyes rake over it with interest, the words ‘captive’, ‘prisoner’ and ‘danger’ tumble around his brain sparking unease but he doesn't pursue them, lets them fade away into the growing fog in his head.
Suddenly the door moves, well-oiled hinges swinging without sound, revealing Magneto from behind. From the moment the first glimpse of red and purple peeks around the corner Scott lets his head droop back and clenches his eyes shut, suddenly glad he’s accustomed to seeing without sight.
The clink of metal hitting the floor hints at his location and brisk pace when he brushes past Scott’s cot, it also indicates he’s in his suit. Which makes sense. Scott had only seen Magneto, not Erik, never Erik to him, once without his Magneto suit. And although it was the first time they’d met recalling the image of it feels unnatural, like seeing a plucked bird.
They had met around a year ago when he’d visited the professor. Scott had taken his jacket at the door and called him ‘’Mr Lensherr’', then he’d walked him through the school ground never imagining their guest would don a suit just weeks later and demolish a S.H.I.E.L.D. security base. Or that a year later he‘d owe the man for a dozen black eyes and fractured ribs.
That night he’d felt the professor ruffle through his thoughts, possibly unaware Scott could feel it. Scott could picture him, clutching a steaming tea, half dozen test papers scattered across the table, only half focusing on the telepathic task he’d set for himself. Sensing the professor routing through his memories of Magneto , feeling him taste his mood and mull over his thoughts it might have been the first time Scott had felt the bitter tang of fear rise up toward the man who had adopted him.
He’d justified and half forgotten the memory until now, in the unfamiliar base at the mercy of the brotherhood is when it scrabbles to the forefront of his mind, distracting him from the current crisis. Dead silence has smothered the earlier clinking sound, which was unfortunate considering Scott doesn’t know where Magneto had got to. He just needed to feign sleep for a few minutes longer and Magneto might loose interest. Relaxing his muscles, he focuses on the steady rise and fall of his chest. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath-
‘'I know you’re awake, Cyclops.’’ With the ruse over Scott blinks open his eyes. The lines in Magneto’s forehead look more pronounced than they did last night, the steely glint in his grey eyes has faded too, leaving a look of exhaustion. ‘’I brought you soup.’’
‘’Oh.’’ And he has, there’s a large bowl perched atop of the side table, tendrils of steam still rolling off, roughly chopped veg floating in thick it’s orange contents.
‘’Does Charles not teach manners at that school of his?’’
‘’Sorry. Thank you, Mr- Magneto... Thank you, Magneto.’’ Leaning forward, Magneto helps him sit up, carefully avoiding brushing against any injuries. Peeling back the cocoon of covers Scott realises the yellow latex suit he’d wiggled out of has been replaced by a thin grey shirt. More splodges of purple are visible now, colours racing down his arm and a blot of green peeking out from his shirt collar, pinpricks of pain light up when he lays eyes on them.
He’s distracted from his multi coloured skin by the tray of soup being carefully deposited in his lap. ‘’Thanks.’’ Clutching the metal spoon awkwardly in his left hand, hunger sits like an hollow ache in his stomach. Raising his spoon, it trembles gently in his grasp before a pull in the magnetic field steadies it.
Peeking out of the corner of his eye as he relishes the first mouthful, Magneto is absorbed in the paper he’d pulled out. The masthead’s look is iconic, from the swooping curves of the B to the way each printed letter looks like it’s been angrily slapped onto the page, Scott recognises the Daily Bugle at first glance. Not the sort of thing he’d been expecting Magneto to be reading, especially since ‘Magneto the mutant menace strikes again’ is a frequent headline. Not that he’s ever imagined the mutant to do anything as mundane as picking up the local paper.
"What do you want from me?"
‘’I want you to finish your meal.’’ The words ‘for now’ hang ominously in the air. Maybe Magneto can see them too as he turns to face him, the paper forgotten on the table, ‘’I meant what I said although Charles seems insistent on throwing them at me I have no desire to hurt children. Especially not mutant children.’’
‘’But the X-men are meant to be your... enemies.’’ Only when they’re in the air does Scott consider how ridiculous the words sound.
‘’Men like Reverend Striker are my enemies. Organisations like Hydra are my enemies. My enemies are numerous. But as naive and mildly imbecilic as I find Charles and your X-men to be, you are not my enemies. Do you think of me as your adversary or have you simply adopted the irrational rivalries of Charles? Remember boy, you attacked me. I’ve never pursued you.’’
‘’You attacked us at that S.H.I.E.L.D base in North Carolina.’’ North Carolina was one of the X-men's first missions, defending a S.H.I.E.L.D. base against Magneto. Scott had seen the base before the mutant terrorist had arrived, it was a grand stone structure, reduced to rubble once Magneto was done.
‘’I was keeping you out of the way.’’ The mission hadn’t gone well. Splitting up Scott had got half way across to his destination before something heavy had bounced off the back of his skull, sending a wave of darkness billowing over him. When he’d awoken a heavy metalic chain tied him to the rest of the team and the building was in ruins. Charles had deemed it by chance that they’d been left on the outskirts of the site, far enough away from the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents hurrying about. ‘’I suppose Charles thought it a coincidence that I left you where S.H.I.E.L.D wasn’t able to retrieve you.’’
Clatter of metal against metal makes Scott realise he's finished the bowl, his hunger pain dissipated. ‘’I’m going to leave you to rest. You’re not my only charge tonight.’’ Covers are dragged over his form by invisible hands, probably metalic disks woven into the material. ‘’I’ll be back in a few hours.’’
‘’Can I speak to the Professor?’’
‘’We’ll see when I get back.’’ His chair drifts across the room, moved by invisible forces. At least Jean’s gift leaves a pinkish hue in it’s wake, some indication that it’s her. Magneto’s control of metalic field leaves no marks, objects just fly as if by a ghost’s hands. ‘’And please Scott call me Erik.’’
Only when he’s left does Scott look at the Daily Bugle’s front cover, sees a cartoon caricature of his kind, a male mutant, magenta skinned and fanged, looming over an all American family, blonde haired kids and a spotted dog. The headline asks whilst also telling, ‘Mutant menace invading your school?'
Meanwhile, “utter” works for the first (e.g., “you utter floorboard”) but somehow “utterly” doesn’t seem to work as well for the second (“I was utterly floorboarded”).
Here's some fun Teen Titans redesigns I did for the heck of it. I'm still working on Blackfire, and I am hoping to get around to some of the others. I know the roster of characters I have right now doesn't make any particular type of sense. But I just started drawing the characters that I like to draw and let it grow from there :)
The concept of both tim drake and kon-el (in actually good forms and designs) making comebacks in animated dc media in the same year. They are literally soulmates. Next year, they’ll make out on the big screen in superman 2.
The last time I played Puck, the director was a huge freak about not letting us wear shoes on stage because it would "ruin the look", but we all kept eating shit, and instead of just letting us wear skintone dance shoes or something with grip, motherfucker poured Pepsi on the floor so it'd be sticky and we had to schlorp around. I fucking hate you, David.
Coking the stage (mopping it with diluted soda so it's a little sticky) is a legitimate low-budget tactic for slick floors, but he just poured so much Pepsi on the floors that for about a whole week, it was audible.
Maybe the course of true love would run a little fucking smoother if we didn't have to ford your Pepsi river, DAVID.
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