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earnestly-endlessly · 3 years

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Hi! Do you have any Cherik Army AUs? I've managed to find just 3.

Hi Anon, thanks for the ask. I found some good Army AUs, though some might not quite fall into the category of 'Army AU'. There are, surprisingly, few Army AUs that I have found, whereas there are several military and war AUs, but those don't necessarily involve an army. I did include a variety that involve an army in one way or another, though some fit the bill better than others. I hope you find some that you enjoy!!

Cherik Army AU

I Want to Guard Your Dreams And Visions – luninosity

Summary: I was reading Barbara Hambly’s Abigail Adams mystery novels, and then Erik/Charles American Revolutionary War AU happened. Little snippet in which they share a tent, drink coffee, and provide support to each other.

The Eggnog Riot – Sophia_Bee

Summary: 1826. The American Military Academy in West Point. The day after Christmas. Cadet Erik Lehnsherr wakes up naked with a certain cadet Xavier sprawled across his chest. He can only blame the eggnog.

No Man’s Land – ikeracity

Summary: It's 1914 in Ypres, Belgium. British soldier Charles Xavier has been in the trenches for four months of endless artillery fire, bone-deep cold, and constant fear of the enemy. But on Christmas Eve, the gunfire falls silent, and they climb out of their trenches for a Christmas truce. Charles, of course, meets Erik, the German soldier across the way.

My Land’s Only Borders Lie Around My Heart – pseudoneems

Summary: WW1 Christmas truce of 1914. Opposing soldiers Erik and Charles meet.

Le soldat – Iggyassou

Summary: Erik is in the trenches, trying to survive the war so that he can go back to Charles, his young lover waiting for him back at home.

Names – Squeegee

Summary: In the summer of 1917, British soldier Charles Xavier finds himself taking cover in a shell crater.

Not sure if the 'graphic' tag applies or not, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.

Quell a storm with pen and ink – patroclux

Summary: Charles had spared his life. That was not something he could easily repay.

They wrote letters to each other for two years, until Charles was pulled out of the war from a sudden illness and Erik remained to fight for a cause he didn't believe in. One that ultimately had no effect; one that stole away four years of his life.

Traumatized and persecuted, Erik applied for a post at Janus, a lighthouse in the middle of the Irish Sea. He thought being alone would do him good.

Despite the letters and despite the love, Erik didn't expect Charles to find him.

Hier steh ich an den Marken meiner Tage – MonstrousRegiment

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is a spy in the SS, and his British liaison is strategist Charles Xavier. Their relationship from the moment they meet to a year after the end of the war.

Theme and Variations: War – ninemoons42

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is a musical prodigy and a man destined for great things and great stages. But his life is shattered by a terrible accident that leaves him blind and trying to find his way back to his life, his music, and his place in the world.

Then he meets Charles Xavier, an agent of Section 8 of the Military Intelligence Directorate of Providence, and he finds himself listening in to clandestine radio transmissions and clicking Morse code, and these sounds are part and parcel of a war that can only take place in the shadows and the hidden places of history.

Strib nicht von Mir – ravenoftheninerealms

Summary: A squad of Allied Forces, led by Charles Xavier, liberates the Nazi concentration camp where Erik was being held prisoner.

Cold foxholes, warm hearts – oddegg

Summary: Basically, this is Band of Mutants. A little slice of life in Bastogne.

Photographs and Memories – tirsynni

Summary: When war-battered Erik Lehnsherr met Charles Xavier, the man kneeling in the dirt and whispering to a lost refugee child, Erik feared his days of running from his deviance was done.

Marching Home – Quietbang

Summary: For a prompt on the meme asking for fic dealing with the fact that, in comics canon, Charles served in the Korean war.

War meant something different to this generation, Charles knew.

Crash on the Levy (Down in the Flood) – Quietbang

Summary: “This is much bigger than you think. You're in the middle of a war, and you don't even realize, do you?”

He pauses, and answers his own question.“No, of course you don't. How silly of me."

The Knight and the Dagger – Dow

Summary: A Lieutenant in the Soviet Army, Erik Lensherr had no other goals than to find the man that killed his parents. But when a discovery yields a little boy with wings like an angel, Erik is shocked to realize that he isn’t alone. There are other people like him, both dangerous and alluring.

Lifelong Service – Pookaseraph

Summary: Erik thinks he should be the one to teach their recruits hand-to-hand combat; Charles makes a persuasive argument to the contrary.

Footsteps of uprooted lovers – ninemoons42

Summary: Against a turbulent backdrop of artistic, social, and political upheaval, the playwright Charles Xavier and the photographer Erik Lehnsherr find themselves meeting under less-than-polite circumstances, but part rather more amicably than they'd met.

When they find each other again in a Barcelona that is falling inexorably toward war, they find themselves taking up arms, each in his own way, and together they join a struggle for freedom, for love, and for their very lives.

Dear Soldier – Lindstrom, ToriTC198

Summary: "Dear Soldier,

I pray that this package finds you well. The organization gave us a list of odds and ends that you might need, but I thought that a person so far from home might appreciate something more than soap and tube socks."

When Charles' school decides to send care packages to the soldiers fighting in Vietnam, he chooses to also include a letter and a few personal touches. When Staff Sergeant Erik is the recipient of that particular care package it will spur a relationship that will change them both.

Fortunate Son – blueink13

Summary: he days leading up to and during Alex's deployment in Vietnam. Everyone handles it in their own way. Some handle better than others.

You’re Here – Deshonana

Summary: Everyone decides its a good idea not to tell Erik when his boyfriend comes home from the military.

Welcome Home – loveydoveyecstasy

Summary: It's been two years since Charles was deployed to Afghanistan, and Erik can't wait to pick him up at the airport.

When Secrets have Secrets – ximeria

Summary: The arguments that take place in General Xavier's office when General Lehnsherr has a bad day are legendary. Quite frankly, no one really knows what's going on and if the two men have it their way, no one ever will.

Quiet Company – Sophia_Bee

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is always on the move. He's spent the last many years going from war torn country to war torn country telling the stories of the people there through photographs. Then one of his pictures is selected as a winner for the Pulitzer Prize and Erik finds himself stuck in London for longer than he wants. He ends up with an assignment to photograph Charles Xavier, a wealthy philanthropist who is intrigued to find himself working with a Pulitzer-winning war photographer. Erik is far less intrigued by someone he considers privileged and out of touch. Both of their lives are about to change in ways they couldn't imagine.

The City is Ours – RedStockings

Summary: Erik felt his heart racing with excitement, lightened, and for once felt joyful. Charles had looked at him, really looked at him, and there had been something there, a knowing of a kind. As the soldiers laughed amongst each other, and joked each other about who would succeed in marrying the boy, Erik made himself a silent vow. Charles was going to be his, and nothing would keep him from having him. He’d marry him, and he’d save him, and Charles would love him for it.

Not even the war could keep them apart... right?

Sign of the Times – dsrobertson

Summary: Casablanca-ish AU.

Charles Xavier meets Erik Lehnsherr in Paris, 1937. They spend the next two years with one another, stupid in-love, until war comes heavy in September 1939. Erik leaves for Poland and the Resistance movement there, promising to return. Charles is left in Paris, where Nazi jackboots march in, Summer of 1940. He becomes a member of the underground French Resistance, publishing illegal newsletters, leaflets, until news comes through in February 1942: Erik is dead. Charles throws himself into more dangerous work, meeting with Communists, helping derail a German train, and he does too much, goes too far. His friends find him safe passage out of France, out across the Mediterranean, to Morocco, Casablanca. It is here he finds Erik, alive.

The Waste Land – nekosmuse

Summary: The White Queen and her Shadow King sit on their throne, safe behind the psionic shields of the Walled City. The armies of Genosha batter uselessly at the gates, a war locked in stalemate. Magneto, camped in the frozen mud, receives word the Citadel intends to send a telepath to the front lines. The same telepath he met two years ago, who sat across a carved wooden chess set and offered Magneto the first friendly smile in a lifetime. The same telepath who still haunts his dreams.

Winter Comes With a Knife – RedStockings

Summary: It apparently came to no one’s surprise that the war-mage Erik Lehnsherr took up residence in the Dark Keep. I knew he was going to choose my sister, Raven, to be his apprentice so why wouldn’t he let me go? What did he want from me?

My name is Charles Xavier, I can read minds and use magic. I’ve met Kings and Queens, mages and magic users. I’ve travelled through lay-lines and jumped through the Dark Void… but none of that really matters.

I am leading an army into war, I am scared and I never wanted this. I’ve come to realise that what I want, rode into my life when I was still a child. Now he’s out there, ready to charge into battle. Ready to die for me.

Polaris – LastAmericanMermaid

Summary: Charles Xavier is 19 years old, doe-eyed and soft; Erik Lehnsherr is 24 years old, steely-hard and bitter. One is a soldier, the other a refugee. Both are mutants. There will be pain, oh yes.

(An AU in which Charles is a wounded British soldier, Erik is the German hiding in France who nurses him back to health, and the contents of this fic are best read to the soundtrack of Atonement.)

Note: Unfinished

MEDIC! – paladin_danse

Summary: A British airborne medic finds himself alone and afraid behind enemy lines. When he decides to save the life of an S.S. German officer he finds wounded in the snow, he has no idea the choice he has made will alter the course of the war—and their lives—forever.

Note: Sadly unfinished

Suicide is Painlesss – weethreequarter

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr did not become a doctor to pick bullets out of children. Unfortunately the US Army had other ideas.

Stuck in the middle of the Korean War, Erik and his fellow civilian surgeons have to battle not only the war, but also weather, mud, and boredom. And that's without mentioning Major Sebastian Shaw who thinks war is the best thing that's ever happened to him and never should've been allowed to pick up a scalpel, or Colonel William Stryker who may or may not work for the CIA and probably doesn't even know himself.

Throw in new arrival Captain Charles Xavier, and Erik is in for a very interesting war.

Note: Unfinished

A Light That Never Goes Out – R_Cookie

Summary: It was meant to be the war to end all wars; these two men were never supposed to meet. One a German Jew, the other a British surgeon. The odds that their paths should cross were next to none - but War defies the expected. It always has, and always will.

From the beaches of Dunkirk to the treacherous slopes of Monte Cassino - this is their story.

WWII AU.

Note: Unfinished

#cherik #cherik fic recs #fic recs #asks #earnestly answers #army au #military au #war au #long post

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faeriescorpio · 3 years

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Broken Glasses and Bonding Sessions

Erik Derekson & Dr. Iplier have a moment where Erik gets hurt and Dr. Iplier doesn’t understand how. Based off a personal experience no one can relate to at all lol. Placed on ao3 as well: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28618878

“Dr. Iplier?”

The doctor turns around, smiling as he greets the other ego.

“Erik! What can I do for-” Dr. Iplier stops suddenly, catching sight of Erik’s face.

The younger ego shuffles his feet nervously as Dr. Iplier leaps forward, fingers tracing but not touching the large growing bruise on Erik’s face.

“Oh, dear! What happened!” Dr. Iplier gasps, examining the injury. The skin was not broken, but the bruise was fresh and painful looking.

“It was an accident,” Erik says, twitching away from the doctor’s touch. “I was wondering if you could fix my glasses. Dr. Iplier’s eyes grow wide as Erik holds out his glasses, completely snapped in half. Dr. Iplier reaches out and takes them gently and examines them, surprised.

“You snapped these perfectly in half,” He says, holding the symmetrical pieces in his hands. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling: awe, maybe? Shock? Erik isn’t the type to break his glasses on purpose, but surely such an even break, combined with a bruise, couldn’t have been an accident?

“Did someone break these on purpose?” He asks, voice low and gentle, trying to calm Erik down from his anxious state. Dr.Iplier hopes that no one has been bullying Erik, but if one of the egos were, then he would alert Dark without any hesitation. But Erik only flushes, face bright red, and avoids eye contact.

“It was an accident,” he mumbles, twisting his yellow cloth in his hands nervously. Dr. Iplier frowns, eyes drawn to the movement, and catches sight of small bruises on Erik’s hands.

“What’s this?” He asks, reaching out and gently taking Erik’s hands. Erik twitches, like a suppressed flinch, but lets the doctor take a look at his hands.

“It’s nothing,” Erik says, but the doctor only frowns. The bruises were minuscule compared to Erik’s face, and fainter too, so there is nothing for the older ego to do. He lets go of Erik’s hands reluctantly. He glances at Erik’s face, but there was little he could do there, and Erik looks a little panicked, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, so the doctor slowly returns his attention to the glasses.

Ignoring the fact that the glasses were entirely snapped, in the center of the nose bridge, the glasses would seem fine, intact save for small scrapes. But certainly, now unusable. And beyond repair.

“These will need a new frame,” Dr. Iplier says reluctantly. “Would you like to make sure your prescription is up to date before we make new ones?” Erik thinks about it, then nods, so Dr. Iplier takes out an eye chart and some of Erik’s old glasses. Over the years, the doctor’s equipment had grown to fit the needs of the various egos, as they seemed to think that they wouldn’t need any other doctor as long as they Dr. Iplier, but the fact was that Dr. Iplier was good for checkups, some emergency room action, and therapy. He did not start into existence specializing in Dark’s broken back, he did not know the optometry needed for The Host’s eyes or Erik’s glasses, and he did not memorize every mental illness available or how to cure Wilford of his obvious insanity. No, all of Dr. Iplier’s much-needed knowledge came from hard studying, late nights, and The Host’s help. The doctor sighs and calls out loud for the Host, confident that the blind ego would know he was being asked for, and what the powerful ego could do to help.

Surely enough, not a full minute passed before the equipment appears in the doctor’s office. Erik startles slightly, but Dr. Iplier only thanks The Host with an easy smile. He gestures for Erik to step forward. As Dr. Iplier leans forward towards Erik’s face, he catches sight of a thin red line across the bridge of Erik’s nose and frowns. It was just where Erik’s glasses sat, skin red and angry but unharmed. The ego in question only watches Dr. Iplier with a curious and nervous expression.

“Were you wearing your glasses when they broke?” The doctor asks, worried.

“It was an accident,” Erik repeats. Dr. Iplier frowns, creases on his forehead growing deeper. He couldn’t see how falling would’ve broken the younger ego’s glasses like that, unless, perhaps, he fell on something. The idea of Erik being bullied seemed more like a possibility, and Dr. Iplier finds himself growing angry. Erik catches sight of the doctor’s expression and looks slightly afraid, but offers up another piece of information.

“I fell.”

Dr. Iplier frowns, acknowledging his other idea besides bullies.

“On something?” He asks, and Erik flushes again, and Dr. Iplier recognizes it as embarrassment.

“Into a corner.”

Dr. Iplier makes a worried noise.

“Into a corner?” He repeats, and reaches out to Erik’s head, searching for any bumps under the younger ego’s hair. He finds nothing, to some relief, but Erik pulls himself out of the doctor’s grasp.

“I just stood up too fast,” Erik says, shifting in his chair uncomfortably, and Dr. Iplier pauses, confused.

“You just stood up too fast.” He repeats, and Erik nods. “Like vertigo?” Erik doesn’t have vertigo.

But the sweater-wearing ego nods anyway, and the older ego narrows his eyes.

“Describe the experience.” He commands, and Erik looks worried but complies.

“I stood up, took a couple of steps, and my vision went black,” Erik starts. “I was in the middle of the hallway, I think, I couldn’t see, but King asked if he could get by, so I tried to step to the side even though my balance felt weird, and the next thing I know, I’m on the floor and my glasses aren’t on my face.”

Dr. Iplier looks at Erik. There was no way that was vertigo.

“Erik,” he says slowly, “That sounds like you blacked out for a moment. You don’t remember falling?” Erik shakes his head.

“I was standing and then I was on the ground and my face hurt.”

Genuinely concerned now, the doctor reached out and checked Erik’s head again, making sure he didn’t miss any bumps last time, but the result was the same. Quickly, the doctor grabbed a pen and held it in front of Erik.

“Follow with your eyes,” he commands, and Erik does so. Nothing. The doctor holds back a growl of frustration and worry.

“Have you felt nauseous? Head hurts?’ He asks, but Erik shakes his head, acting like everything is fine. He doesn’t seem to regret shaking his head either, which the doctor notes.

“Only my face hurts, here,” He gestures to the bruise, and Dr. Iplier nods.

“You got a nasty bruise there,” he agrees. He frowns. He didn’t seem to have a concussion, which is both relieving and worrying. What had caused Erik to blackout?

“You said King was there?” Erik nods. “Can you go get him?”

Erik nods and stands with ease. He leaves the room steadily, and Dr. Iplier watches him go.

“Host,” he says slowly, “I think I need to give a blood test to Erik.”

The equipment appears by Dr. Iplier’s side quickly, a blood-stained note accompanying it.

“Do you need help diagnosing him?” It says in a sloppy scrawl, and Dr. Iplier bites his lip.

“I might,” he admits.

King and Erik enter the room a second later, and Dr. Iplier gestures them to sit.

“King,” he greets. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what you saw when-”

A flash of cold enters the room, and out of the corner of Dr. Iplier’s eyes his spots a black blur. He turns to face Dark as the grayscale ego enters with The Host in tow.

“I hear someone was injured?” Dark says gruffly, glitching sporadically in a way that suggests nervousness.

“I’m sure King’s story will catch us all up,” Dr. Iplier says, turning back to King, who looks paler as he realizes that something might be wrong.

“What happened when Erik fell?” The doctor asks, ignoring the two most powerful egos behind him.

“Sure,” King says, looking worried as well. “I entered the hallway, and he was just standing there at the other end, staring off into the distance, or so I thought. I asked if I could get by and he didn’t reply. He just stood there for another moment and then just fell over.”

“He just fell over,” Dr. Iplier repeats, and King nods and stands up to demonstrate.

“Yeah, he was like this-” King stands stiffly with his arms at his sides and legs together- “and then he just fell forward!” King leans forward, letting gravity pull him forward until he automatically sticks a foot out to steady himself. “Except he didn’t catch himself. Just fell, like a statue knocked over.”

Dr. Iplier looks at Erik carefully, noting the tight grip the youngest ego had on his yellow cloth.

“Thanks, King,” he says finally. “That’s all.” King stands reluctantly, glancing at Dark and Erik before Dr. Iplier catches his eyes. He tries to smile reassuringly at King, but the truth is, he is worried. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He must do a good job at hiding it, though, because King seems to relax and darts out the door.

“What is it?” Dark asks, voice low, and the doctor could only shrug.

“I need to do a blood test,” he says, admitting his confusion. He turns to grab a needle.

“The Host will repair Erik’s glasses,” The Host declares, and turns his back determinedly as Dr. Iplier draws Erik’s blood. Honestly, the number of egos afraid of needles in this mansion was staggering, and not at all helpful for the doctor’s job.

As soon as Dr. Iplier sets up the machine, the Host turns around again, holding Erik’s glasses, now intact. The Host offers them to the youngest ego wordlessly, and once they are taken back, the Host turns to the machine.

“The machine hums, finishing its diagnosis, and begins to spell out the results,” The Host narrates, and Dr. Iplier realizes the Host is speeding up the results.

“Can you not tell what is wrong with Erik using your narrations?” Dark snaps irritably and The Host frowns in Dark’s direction.

‘The Host does not want to risk narrating wrong and giving Erik a second problem on top of what is wrong with him now,” The Host snaps back, and Dark steps back a little, the closest thing to an apology that the demonic ego would offer right now, and the Host turns back to the machine wordlessly. Enough time spent with the blind ego grants the doctor the knowledge that the Host has forgiven Dark, but Erik glances between the two worriedly, so Dr. Iplier pats his shoulder in silent reassurance.

The machine beeps to announce its completion of analyzing Erik’s blood, and the tension in the room ramps up. Dr. Iplier leans forward and reads the results, making a noise when he sees what’s wrong.

“Low iron,” he says out loud, and some of the tension dissipates. The doctor reaches into his cabinet and pulls out some iron supplements.

“Take two a day, and no more, or else you’re going to get badly sick, and no less, or you’re going to keep passing out.” The doctor instructs and frowns less. “And drink more water. I noticed your hands were rather dry.”

Erik takes the supplements with no small amount of relief and then exits the room quickly, leaving the other three egos behind.

“The Host is glad it was not something worse,” The Host says finally.

“Low iron is still pretty bad, you know how he looked,” Dr. Iplier counters and The Host shrugs slightly, shoulders tense, and the doctor accepts the apology for what it is. Dr. Iplier takes the health of all his family seriously, no matter how easily fixable, and The Host knows this.

“If I could grow gray hair, this would’ve given me quite a few,” Dark grumbles, voice less glitchy than before. He runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly exhausted.

Our family can be so stressful,” The doctor commiserates. He pokes Dark for emphasis, unafraid of the eldest ego. “Like you. Get some sleep.”

The powerful ego only sighs, a moment of weakness reserved for the pair of older egos.

“Maybe I will,” he allows, and then glitches away, hopefully teleporting to his room.

“The Doctor will need a bigger office if he is going to keep all of this equipment,” The Host notes, and Dr. Iplier nods in agreement.

“Definitely,” He agrees, then hums and pats the chair next to him. “While you’re here, you should get your bandages changed.” “Absolutely not!” The Host yelps, making his way towards the door. “They aren’t that filthy yet!”

Dr. Iplier watches him scramble off, annoyance growing.

“It seems my job is never finished,” he complains to no one, and a fond smile threatens to tug his lips up, but he pushes it down.

“Oh well.” He grabs a clean roll of bandages and leaves the room, turning the light off as he goes.

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biostudyblog · 4 years

Text

Developmental Psychology

Research Methods

Studies involving human development are either cross-sectional (studies observing patients at different changes to see how different variables change over time) or longitudinal (studies observing one person over. a long period of time to precisely measure the effect of development on a specific group)

Prenatal Influences on Development

Two examples of prenatal influences are genetics (whose effect should be obvious; the chromosomes you’re born with influence the development of certain traits.) The amount of influence chromosomes have on development over environment can be observed in twin studies where the subjects have an identical genome. Another example is teratogens. Teratogens are chemicals or agents which can be inhaled, ingested, or contracted in some way by the mother. One of the most common is alcohol which can cause fetal alcohol syndrome (FAS) caused by severe alcoholism during pregnancy. A less severe condition caused by moderate drinking is known as fetal alcohol effect. A natural example is the virus Zika which made the news a few years ago for its devastating effects on newborns whose mothers had contracted the illness.

Motor/Sensory Development

Reflexes

While in the past it was understood that babies were “blank slates” research has shown babies have a specific set of reflexes, or automatic responses to certain stimuli.

The Newborn’s Senses

Along with reflexes, humans are born with their sensory apparatus. Research has found that babies can hear before they are born, and have the same basic preferences in smell and taste that we do. The most different is sight. When we are born, hearing is the dominant sense due to baby’s poor vision (legally blind). Normally, by 12 months, sight becomes the dominant sense.

Motor Development

Assuming all goes according to plan, humans develop the same basic motor skills in the same sequence (commonly at different ages, however.) Our motor control develops when neurons in the brain connect with each other and become myelinated. Typically by 5 1/2 months, babies can roll over, stand at 8-9 months, and walk after 15 months.

Parenting

Attachment Theory

As important as nature is in development, nurture plays just as big a role in deciding how we develop. Biologist Konrad Lorenz found some infant animals imprint on individuals or even objects they see during a critical period after birth. While not so simple in humans or other complicated animals, attachment, or the relationship between child and caregiver has a profound impact on growth.

Harry Harlow- Harlow raised baby monkeys with two artificial mothers. One had a bottle for the baby to eat, and the other was wrapped in a soft blanket. The babies preferred the soft mother when scared despite not being where the food was. Without a real mother, the babies Harlow studied became stressed and frightened, giving insight into what the deprivation of attachment can do.

Mary Ainsworth- Ainsworth researched what happened when newborns were placed into a strange situation- the parents would leave them for a short while and return. There were 3 types of reactions.

Infants with secure attachments explored the environment with their parents, became distressed when they left, and went to them when they returned.

Infants with avoidant attachments resisted being held by the parents, preferring to explore. They didn’t seek comfort upon the parents return.

Infants with anxious/ambivalent attachments (resistant attachments) were ambivalent to the parents. They were extremely distressed when the parent left but resisted comfort when they came back.

Parenting Styles

There’s a lot of debate about the “right” way to raise your child. Psychologists have been looking into the scientific answer, and there doesn’t seem to be a conclusive right way, however psychological research can point parents in the right direction. Psychologist Diana Baumrind researched parenting styles and defined 3 main categories of styles.

Authoritarian parents: set strict standards for their children and provide harsh punishments. Obedience is more important than rationalisation- “Why am I in trouble?” “Because I said so.”

Permissive parents: set unclear guidelines- rules either don’t exist or often change. Punishments may not be followed through on, and rule-breaking goes ignored.

Authoritative parents: have set, consistent standards for their children that they explain thoroughly to their child. If a child breaks a rule, it often includes a discussion about why the rule was important and why they are being punished.

Authoritative parenting has shown to produce the most desirable home environment. Children in these kinds of homes are often more socially capable and perform much better academically

Stage Theories

Nature vs Nurture is certainly important, but there’s another important debate going on in psychology; continuity versus discontinuity. Do we develop continually or do we have periods of rapid development and periods with little change? Biologically, we develop discontinuously, but what about thought? Lev Vygotsky’s concept of the zone of proximal development is one answer to this question. The zone of proximal development is the range of tasks a child is able to complete on their own. Adults can provide scaffolds to help them reach the upper end of their range encouraging further development. Stage theories are discontinuous theories by their nature. Two; Erikson’s and Freud’s are studied not because of their scientific merit but for historical reasons.

Sigmund Freud

Freud proposed we go through 5 psychosexual theories (sexual being where we derive our pleasure as we grow up.) If we fail to resolve conflict in any stage, we may become fixated- (preoccupied with behaviours associated with that stage.)

Erik Erikson

Erikson was a neo-Freudian- he believed in the basics of Freud’s theory but adapted it. He felt our personality was most influenced by our experiences with other, so created the psychosocial stage theory.

Trust versus mistrust: Babies learn whether they can trust the world to provide for their needs

Autonomy versus shame and doubt: Toddlers begin to exert their will over their own body. Here, toddlers learn how to control themselves and their environment.

Initiative versus guilt: When children begin to question everything- if initiative is encouraged, children will be comfortable about being curious later on.

Industry versus inferiority: The beginning of formal education. This is where students learn to produce work that will be evaluated- children may develop what is known as an inferiority complex where they don’t feel competent that can carry on for the rest of their life.

Identity versus role confusion: At adolescence, the goal is to find what social identity we are most comfortable with. Failure to resolve this conflict may cause an identity crisis.

Intimacy versus isolation: Young adults need to try to figure out how to balance their life- how much time should go to themselves, to family, to friends and to a partner?

Generativity versus stagnation: This is where the famous midlife crisis tends to happen. Adults here question whether they are making the best life they want.

Integrity versus despair: At the end of their life, elders either look back on their life with fondness or regret.

Cognitive Development

Jean Piaget

Piaget worked for Alfred Binet, creator of the first intelligence test, and was curious about the behaviours of the children he was interviewing. He noticed that certain age groups made similar mistakes. Piaget used this information to explain how children view the world through schemata, (cognitive rules). We tend to incorporate new experience into existing schemata through assimilation. When information contradicts that schemata, it’s modified. A little girl who’s only ever seen girls wear skirts will have to adjust her schemata if she goes to a pride march and sees boys wearing skirts. Piaget described cognitive development in 4 stages.

Sensorimotor Stage (Birth to 2). Babies begin to explore the world through their senses. One of the challenges is developing object permanence- the understanding that an object exists when you can’t see it.

Pre-operational Stage (2 to 7). After developing object permanence, the child will begin to use language and can refer to the world using symbols. Children are egocentric during this stage and can’t understand other people’s perspectives.

Concrete operational (8 to 12). During this stage, children learn to think logically about complex relationships between different objects- children at this stage demonstrate knowledge of the concepts of conservation. The understanding that properties of objects don’t change when the shape does. These concepts are shown in the diagramme below.

Formal operational (12 to adulthood). Formal operational reasoning is abstract reasoning. It’s the ability to manipulate and study objects and ideas without physically seeing or holding them. An example of this type of reasoning is hypothesis testing- a child in this stage would be able to answer a question like “what would you do if you were born somewhere where language didn’t exist” despite not having a model to relate back to.

Criticism of Piaget: Information-Processing Model

Piaget’s model was imperfect- many children move through these stages at drastically different stages. His tests relied heavily on language which may have biased him towards the older children with a stronger grip on language. The information-processing model is a more continuous form of Piaget’s theory. It notes that our abilities to memorise, interpret, and perceive gradually develop as we grow up, instead of occurring at specific stages.

Moral Development

Lawrence Kohlberg

You can’t discuss moral development without discussing Kohlberg. His theory looked at how we reason about ethical situations and how that reasoning changes. His theory was built off of asking children a moral question (for example the Heinz dilemma- should Heinz steal medicine he can’t afford to save his wife’s life?)

Pre-conventional: People at this stage will make the best decision to avoid punishment. A pre-conventional answer to the Heinz dilemma is that he shouldn’t steal the medicine because he could go to jail.

Conventional: Moving past personal gain and loss, this stage focuses on how the choice a person makes will affect how others see them. A conventional answer to the Heinz dilemma is that Heinz should steal the drugs in order to be seen as a hero.

Post-conventional: People at this stage evaluate the rights and values involved with their decision. Self defined ethical principles can guide the decision someone makes (which can differ based on upbringing, culture, etc). A post-conventional answer to the Heinz dilemma is that he should steal the drug because his wife’s right to life outweighs the clerks right to property.

Criticisms of Kohlberg

Carol Gilligan was a notable critic of Kohlberg’s work, because in his research, he only looked at boys. When he did research girls, he tended to put their responses into lower categories, implying an intense amount of bias informing his work. Gilligan’s research showed that boys have a more absolute view on what is moral while girls are more attentive to situational factors.

Gender and Development

Biopsychological Theory

Biopsychologists concentrate on how nature influences gender. Children learn obvious differences between the sexes, however there are several more subtle ones. People assigned female at birth, for example have larger corpus callosums, theoretically affecting how the hemispheres coordinate and communicate.

Psychoanalytic Theory

Freud believed that gender identities begin to develop when children realise, unconsciously that they can’t compete with their same sex parent for the affections of the opposite sex parent (this theory is nearly impossible to study, which is why it has mostly been written off.)

Social Cognitive Theory

Social and cognitive psychologists prefer to observe how society and thoughts about gender can affect role development. Boys are more often encouraged to play rough, leading to more aggressive play. Gender-schema theory states that we internalise messages about gender to form cognitive rules about how different genders should behave. If all a child sees on the TV are girls wearing makeup and being interested in fashion, they’ll internalise the idea that women should be interested in makeup and fashion.

#developmental psychology #psychology #psych #AP Psych #Psychology study blog #Psychology studyblr #Psych study blog #Psych studyblr #biology #bio #biology study blog #biology studyblr #bio study blog #bio studyblr

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brotherhoodofm · 4 years

Note

To Erik: ❛ you were once and perhaps continue to be the myth you tell to scare yourself ❜

The words felt like a curse. They broke over the top of Erik’s skull and trickled icily down his spine. His pupils contracted as though Shaw had thrown a blinding light at them and he was too stunned, too naked to squint through the glare. Because he realized Shaw had seen it, his continual destruction and reinvention of himself:

In his youth at the Hellfire Club: When I was with a human woman, I dreamed of peace, and now I know that naïve man’s ideals were not just foolish, they were a disease lulling our race into complacency before our destruction.

When he was trying to subjugate the other mutant rebels with the Mutant Brotherhood, then with all the forces of Genosha: I was wrong, Charles—it’s not enough to make war, until we’re all unified we’re helpless before the humans. And so help me, no one, not even you, can stand in the way of what I must do to make that happen.

And now: The first thing I built in Genosha was a prison to cull and unify us, and never again…

He realized he’d given Shaw the satisfaction of his speechlessness at how cutting that insight was. His knuckles went white as he clenched his fists at his sides. As always, his temper spoke too quickly—his voice didn’t recover its strength until after he’d ground out the first few syllables of his answer. ‘N—o… I learn from my mistakes and move forward. That’s likely why I have more allies than you, however shrewd you may imagine that you are.’

Nevertheless, his mind wandered to his most recent argument with Charles. He’d let the genius psychic’s vision govern what they were building on Krakoa for so long without voicing his vague ill-ease. Part of that had been his euphoria at finally being able to work together, at Krakoa’s sheer abundance, at just how many of their mutant people had joined them in their exodus.

But it also been fear, abandoning his friend by putting most of the burden of envisioning Krakoa’s society on him?

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omgrachwrites · 5 years

Text

May Queen (Loki Laufeyson)

Pairing: OC x Loki

Summary: Astrid, the princess of Vanaheimr relocates to Asgard to seal a betrothal to the youngest prince. She soon finds happiness and a multitude of new friends. Unfortunately treachery and deceit lie in the court of Asgard in unlikely places, and she learns that true love never dies.

Warning: fluff, angst, slowburn

Words: 2524

A/N: Wow, this is such a long one! I hope you guys enjoy and please let me know what you think, I love you all! xxx

Part Four - The Wedding

Astrid wanted to be alone that morning, she needed to be alone to allow herself to be truly upset without Mara’s eyes glancing at her in sympathy, and she couldn’t stand those types of looks, especially from her handmaiden. She had supposed that she’d cry on the morn of her love’s wedding, though now she was standing in her underclothes in front of the mirror and the tears just would not come.

Astrid had plenty of reasons to cry though, the day before her mother had dropped a huge bombshell upon her shoulders. The Queen wanted Astrid and Loki to be intimate with one another before their wedding. Her reasoning behind it was that if Loki got her pregnant then Odin couldn’t get cold feet about the match before they were wed. It felt like it was a trap for them both and Astrid felt like her mother was selling her to the highest bidder.

To top it all off, Arna – Erik’s betrothed – was a lovely young woman and she’d be able to make Erik extremely happy. Astrid would have liked it better if Arna was awful, then Erik might have been more compelled to come back to her. She sighed at her reflection, a pasty colour invaded her normally rosy skin, making her look ill – she wondered if she could get ill from a broken heart – and her baby blue eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

Though, she supposed that she’d better make herself look beautiful, she had to put on her best face. She picked out a velvet burgundy dress that came off at the shoulders and ended in long sleeves embellished with golden threaded designs. Golden flowers were sewn into the hem of her dress. Upon her curls she rested her crown and pinched her cheeks to bring some life back into them. A knock at her door startled her slightly, she wasn’t expecting any company. She closed her eyes for a moment and there was another knock at her door in the meantime. Astrid willed her voice not to shake as she called out to whoever was knocking.

“Come in,” she worried at her bottom lip with her teeth as the door swung open to reveal Mara who had a sympathetic look on her face, just like Astrid knew she would have, “whatever is the matter?” she asked as Mara lingered in the doorway.

“Do you remember the wedding custom?” she started with wide eyes when Astrid raised an eyebrow, Mara continued with quick, nervous words tumbling out of her mouth, “as the reigning princess, it is customary for you to bless the bride, for a fortunate wedding and future,” she added, licking her lips nervously.

Astrid’s stomach dropped. How could she forget? She was such a fool.

“Yes of course, please send the blushing bride in,” she tried so very hard to keep the bitter tone out of her voice, “it merely slipped my mind with the happenings of this morning,” she smiled wanly and turned to the table beside her bed, it was part of the custom to give the bride a token.

What was she supposed to give the woman that was about to gain everything that she’d ever wanted? The princesses’ eyes landed on a red velvet box, sighing as she opened it and saw the golden circlet adorned with shimmering moonstones. She’d received it from a travelling merchant and it was said to bless the wearer with fertility. Astrid had been planning on wearing the beautiful item for her own wedding but that was before her idea of a fairy tale wedding was killed.

By the time that Astrid gad turned back around to face Mara, Arna had entered the room and Astrid’s breath was momentarily taken away. Arna’s wedding dress was a flowy white masterpiece and in the morning sunlight her auburn hair shone like copper. If there was one thing that was certain it was that Erik and Arna would have beautiful children with hair kissed by fire.

“My lady, you look more beautiful than anybody could have ever imagined,” Astrid smiled, tilting her head in Arna’s direction as she placed the circlet upon Arna’s head, “I hereby bless you on this day and all of your future days. I bless you, your children and your children’s children for all the days and nights to come.”

“My lady,” Arna bowed low and gracefully, “you are too kind, I thank you for your blessing and now I must finish preparing myself to meet my love at the altar, I beg your leave.”

“As you will my lady,” Astrid nodded as Arna swept from her chambers, on the way to the future that should have been Astrid’s, the princess sighed as she smoothed down her hair, “come on Mara, let’s get to the grove before we’re late,” she left the room without waiting for Mara’s answer.

In the warmer months and when the weather was good, the wedding processions were held in an enchanted – or that’s what the common people called it – grove and when it got cold they’d have it in the Great Hall.

“Are you quite alright my lady?” Mara asked nervously as they made it outside into the blinding sunlight.

“I’m fine Mara, let’s not talk about it further,” she sternly dismissed Mara’s tentative words as her eyes landed on Loki who was standing on the front lawn of the castle, Astrid vaguely wondered for a second if he’d been waiting for her.

“Your Grace,” he grinned, taking her hand in his and kissing the top of it lightly, he looked very handsome, “you look so beautiful, as always,” Astrid blushed at his compliment, up until about two days ago it seemed like he didn’t want to know her and now he was giving her compliments and he was being very charming, she wondered what had changed. Though, she wasn’t complaining, she kind of liked his attention.

“As do you, my prince,” she answered with a smile, feeling slightly more cheerful. Loki smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing as he did so. He even greeted Mara politely, that was one of the things that Astrid liked about Loki, he was gracious and kind to everyone, even to the servants.

Loki held out his hand for Astrid to take, she hesitated for a split second as she glanced at his face before she took his hand and they walked towards the grove together, greeted people as they passed. The Queen smiled proudly at her daughter as she walked to the ceremony with Odin and Frigga while Thor was taking one of the ladies from court, she was laughing obnoxiously and unnecessarily loud.

Astrid’s breath was taken away as they arrived at the grove; it had been the place of an old chapel that had been destroyed in a battle, though the stone arches still remained. No one knew why, some said it was the will of the gods and other people said that they had been protected by fairy magic. White and pink spring flowers hung down from the arches and the forest floor was scattered with pale pink petals.

It certainly was a magnificent spectacle and Erik looked stunning in his wedding robes, she longed to go and talk to him but she couldn’t. It was almost as if Erik could feel Astrid’s eyes upon him because he refused to look in her direction as she walked to the front with Loki. The incessant ache in Astrid’s heart didn’t go away and too soon it was time for the wedding to begin as the bards started up the wedding tune.

Astrid fought to conceal the gasp that threatened to escape her lips, Arna looked very beautiful in her white dress and with the sun behind her she looked like an angel. Astrid glanced at Erik to see that he was beaming with joy. At that very moment Loki placed his hand on her lower back and Astrid leaned into his touch, thankful for it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mara and Loki exchange a glance. The ceremony soon started and Erik and Arna promised to love and respect each other till the end of time a four cords were draped over their hands and tied as they shared their kiss.

The wedding feast was a joyous occasion for everyone – well almost everyone – Erik smiled gracefully at his new wife as they ate their way through some amazing courses, passing on some of them. When the hours started to pass by Loki did the honours by asking the bride to grace him with a dance, leaving Erik and Arna in each other’s company. After a couple of moments Erik wordlessly held out his hand to the princess, just as quietly she took his hand after a second of hesitation and she let him lead her.

“You look lovely this evening Your Grace,” Erik started as he pulled her close to dance with her.

“Congratulations Sir, your new bride is simply lovely,” she said in a monotone voice, ignoring the compliment as she watched Arna dance with Loki.

“Astrid, look at me,” he asked and she shook her head as hot tears blurred her vision. The man she loved was right beside her but she couldn’t have him, she couldn’t reach him, “please Astrid,” she sighed and looked at him, his eyes were the colour of emeralds and his lips were a cherry red from his biting them.

A crease was forming in the middle of his forehead and she reached up with soft fingers almost as if she could smooth it out with just her touch, “you look so beautiful,” she whispered and he had the grace to blush. Astrid had to try and ignore how right she felt in his arms.

“Before you were promised to Prince Loki I tried to delay the wedding,” Erik confessed and Astrid’s grip tightened slightly on his strong shoulder.

“Why?” she asked, wondering what on earth could have made him ever think of doing that.

“Isn’t it obvious? Because I love you, the gods are indeed cruel to keep us apart from each other,” he said, lowering his voice.

“Don’t, don’t say that,” Astrid pleaded, “you’re married now, you must stay true to your wife.”

Erik nodded, his pretty eyes were sad, “I always imagined that we’d run away together.”

“A sweet dream, but a dream nonetheless,” Astrid nodded as the music came to a stop, “well, farewell.”

“Farewell, Your Grace,” he bowed his head, bringing her head up to his lips, kissing it gently, rubbing his thumb across the skin of her wrist. Gently, Astrid took her hand from his grasp and took her leave.

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Astrid had been missing for a while now and Loki had to admit to himself that he was actually worried about her; she looked upset when she had finished dancing with Erik, the groom. She had told him that she wasn’t feeling too well and that she needed some time alone from the ceremony. At first, Loki didn’t care that she wasn’t there because he got to spend some time with Mara and that meant the most to him.

However, after a while, the young prince found himself looking over at the entrance to the grove, wondering when she would reappear. She was still missing when the bride and groom released thousands of gorgeous blue butterflies, causing the ladies of the court to gasp in delight and awe. The princess was still missing when it was time for the fire eaters to perform. He was going to find her, he said as much to Mara but he didn’t like it when Mara tried to convince him to stay. He smiled graciously at everybody as he passed and made the necessary excuses as he walked into the thicket of trees in search for the princess.

Loki hadn’t been looking for long until he walked close to the river and she was sitting there, the pale moonlight on the water. He heard her sniffle and he just knew that she’d be crying and he felt a pang in his chest, even if they didn’t talk much he still didn’t like it when someone was upset. And, he didn’t know how he was going to help Mara dispose of her mistress; he certainly did crazy things for love. But, for now he wanted to make the princess smile, she was especially lovely when she did that, it was like the sunshine itself.

He whispered the incantation and the golden butterflies appeared in the air – he wasn’t able to make real life butterflies appear yet so golden butterflies made out of shimmering fairy dust had to do. Astrid made a noise of delight as the butterflies swarmed around her head, giggling as one landed on her nose. When she turned to see where the butterflies were coming from she smiled when she saw Loki, her smile was laced with surprise. As Loki cautiously made his way over to her he noticed that her eyes were red and glassy.

“You missed the butterfly releasing,” Loki started, somewhat awkwardly, “and as crazy as it sounds I wanted to cheer you up.”

“Thanks Loki,” she whispered and patted the grass next to her, “were the butterflies they released as pretty as yours?” she smiled as the butterflies formed a crown in her hair.

“They were blue,” Loki offered as he sat down on the grass, “are you alright?” he asked.

Astrid shrugged with a sad smile as her fingers played with her long hair, he didn’t exactly know why she was upset but he could make a good guess, “I don’t really know how to feel right now, thank you for coming to see if I was alright,” she smiled, nudging her shoulder against his.

“You’re welcome,” he smiled and an idea popped into his head and he knew it would make her smile, “when I was a child my mother used to tell me a story about a princess. She was the princess of love and beauty, kind to everybody, even those that were below her. She was loved back – maybe always not in the way she wanted – and her kingdom had peace for evermore and she was remembered as the May Queen for the flowers that grew at her feet,” he nodded at the hem of her dress where flowers had been sewn, “and the butterflies in her hair.”

Astrid chewed her lip and looked at the grass, biting her lip and Loki just knew that she was trying to conceal a grin. After a beat, she looked up at him, pure joy reflected in her eyes and Loki felt proud, “your mother told you that story did she?”

“She absolutely did,” Loki nodded with a cheeky grin.

“I believe you,” she joked in a tone that implied that she didn’t and she rested her head against Loki’s shoulder – it was a surprise to everyone – she was so close that he could smell the perfume in her hair, “thank you Loki. The May Queen has a nice tone to it.”

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@theonelittleone @void-imaginations

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sickandtideeeee · 5 years

Text

By Bast - Chapter 7 (Erik x Reader)

“This has to be some kind of joke,” you whispered aloud weakly, hands shaking.

But just in case it wasn’t, you tore the piece of paper in half, in fourths, in eighths, in sixteenths, tearing and ripping the note into confetti while hot tears began to well into your eyes. Once you had disposed of the evidence, flushing it down the toilet, you slipped out of your room and headed straight to the temple.

You had thankfully managed to escape detection from any of the palace guards and made it to the temple under cover of the sunset. Although you had wrapped yourself with a shawl, hoping to avoid notice, you had the inkling that you were no longer being surveilled anyway. Pushing through a split second of hesitation, you made your way into the temple, hoping you would run into one person in particular.

Asha.

She sat quietly in a far corner, if you could imagine any corners in the enormous hut’s round architecture, pulverizing a fine red powder reminiscent of the immersion sands on a grinding stone.

“Asha!” you called over to her and as if snapped out of a trance, she looked up to you in shock. Although it was late, you knew she often popped in late at night to prepare salves and poultices for the next morning, being the night owl that she was.

“Nkiru?!” She whispered loudly, looking around frantically to clear the room of any observers. Ignoring her comment, you ran into her arms, almost toppling her petite, plump self over. Patting you on the shoulder, she whispered, “Are you even allowed to be here?””

You pulled back from her and shook your head.

“Nki, I’m not trying to be executed!” she said, pulling you with her behind beaded curtains into the nearest mediation room for privacy. “You’re lucky it’s late and no one’s probably here…”

Now that you had re-steadied yourself, you dropped into a seating position on the dirt floor and Asha sat across from you, giving you a wary look.

“I haven’t seen or heard for you in a week. What’s going on?”

“Amina’s gone,” you said, flatly, and Asha let out an audible gasp.

“There’s no way.”

“She left a note.”

“She would never!” Asha said, jumping to her feet. “She’s way too responsible, and- “

She trailed off as the two of you silently acknowledged that the punishment for a Dora deserting was a fate worse than death.

What you really wanted to know was why. Amina was never a rash decision-maker. She was good at mediating uncomfortable situations and while her principles were strong, she was never ideological. Unlike you, she wouldn’t leave just because she did not agree with whoever was in authority.

“How far do you think she is by now?” Asha inquired in a low voice. Thankfully, the precaution was unnecessary, given that the temple was a technology-free zone, so they were safe to speak freely as long as no actual person was within earshot.

Given that Amina had probably left right after she had been escorting you, and you had been with him for about an hour or so, she was probably just out of the palace.

But your girl could haul ass.

“I have no idea,” you responded. You got up to your feet and stepped out of the meditation room, now sufficiently aware of your surroundings for the heavy stench of incense to become nauseating. Asha followed you out, with a heavy sigh.

“Had she been acting strange?” You questioned, following brick steps into the Herb Garden, hoping that the calming, muted glow of the lavender flowers could settle you. Before Asha could answer, you stopped in your tracks. All that stretched before you were the stale smell of charred soil and stone, and gritting your teeth, you stared into the desolate remains of what was once a sacred plant nursery.

He did not… Kneeling, you dug your hands through a handful of packed, dry earth and let it run through your fingers. It seemed as though life as you knew it would continue to disintegrate around you.

“The new king ordered us to burn everything.” Asha mumbled, apologetically. You nodded your head quietly, staring dejectedly at the packed, dead earth.

“And no, the last time Amina came by… she was worried about you, but there were never any signs…” she continued. You rose again and nodded acquiescently at her.

“I think I should go.”

Asha squeezed your hands and smiled weakly.

Before you made it out the door, she called out to you once more.

“Papa Zuri is resting with his ancestors. We buried him well.”

Back turned to her, you murmured a word of thanks, grateful that your voice was just loud enough to hide the waver in your voice.

Without Shuri, the laboratory in Mount Bashenga had lost not only the loud gqom music coming from the overhead speakers, but also the hustle, bustle and drive that defined the Wakandan Design Group. After a night of restless sleep, now certain that N’Jadaka had relaxed the security detail he had placed on you, you had retired to Shuri’s old office, taking particular care to avoid any conversation with the other workers. First, you confirmed that the golden necklace had disappeared, and then brought out your journal to start drafting a design.

You flipped the pages to the following report:

EyoKwindla 10, Shemu

(March 10, Harvesting Season)

Data:

Ezi (998 days, M)

Vitality improved >> 8.3h spent in enriched environment (+33.8% from 6.2h)

Wt 23g, Avg HR 543, Avg RR 123, Avg Temp 37.2C

Epi (1003 days, F)

Vitality improved >> 8.5h spent in enriched environment (+10.3% from 7.7h)

Wt 18g, Avg HR 483, Avg RR 158, Avg Temp 37.3C

Indla (1002 days, F)

Vitality improved >> 9.1h spent in enriched environment (+40.0% from 6.5h)

Wt 18.5g, Avg HR 582, Avg RR 199, Avg Temp 37.2C

Conclusions to date:

- Mice appear to have made statistically significant gains in intelligence, with increased occupation of enriched habitat

- Mice appear to be recovering functionally from intrauterine growth restriction, cerebral palsy and congenital heart defects

- Mice have demonstrated improved longevity, outliving the standard lifespan of 2 years

This journal entry, describing a tiny cohort of three mice, summarized one of your most promising experiments with heart-shaped herb extract. Zuri’s discovery and subsequent destruction of your coveted rodents had spurned your active rejection of your country’s cultural values.

While Wakanda was incomparably medically superior to the rest of the world, its warrior-centric culture favored the naturally strong and those born gifted, leaving those who had been born with congenital defects, absence of organs, or susceptibility to progressive disability to either facilitate their lives with technology (if they could afford it) or perish. All medicine centered on response to trauma or illness. To make matters worse, a cultural taboo against prosthetics and organ implants or otherwise stagnated its society, producing health inequity often hidden to the palace dwellers and other elites.

This unfairness could have easily been solved by greater access to extract from the heart-shaped herb, and your small cohort proved it!

It didn’t matter anyway. The garden was gone, and so was that plan. You began to draw.

Gaze focused on the white canvas, a flash of white light blinded you as though the room’s overhead illuminators had silently shorted and shattered. An all-encompassing, enveloping darkness filled your vision, but rather than a feeling of dread, you felt lightweight, even airy.

Almost as suddenly as you had fallen into the sensation, you came out of it. You awoke, listless, drawing air into your lungs rapidly and desperately, as though you had just emerged from water. You had gripped your pen so tightly that it had shattered, and blotches of dark ink now decorated your palms and had dropped onto your canvas.

Did I just seize?

Now before you, lay a sketch of two jungle cats locked in fierce battle, one black as night and the other spotted and golden. While the dark animal seemed to have the advantage, teeth sinking into its opponent’s neck, the fierceness in the other cat’s snarl suggested that it was far from down for the count. In the backdrop, humans dressed in what appeared like ancient garments with primitive weapons appear to also be engaging in battle.

In the center, a small cat watched from the distance, piercing violet eyes appearing to gaze directly in your soul. For a split second, you were disconcerted.

But then an uncharacteristic fury began to fill your soul, and in a flurry of rage, you began to throw everything you could find. Books, beakers, pens, tools, anything within reach. Once you had tired yourself out, you slumped to the floor, crying profusely.

You couldn’t do this anymore.

You had no idea what Bast wanted from you, but now she was playing tricks on you.

Or you were losing your mind, and this was your descent into madness. After all, somehow you had blacked out and drawn something far outside of your natural artistic ability with pops of vibrant color despite only having a black ink pen.

It had to be the latter. You wanted to be committed and have it over with. Refusing to take the time to decipher your artwork, you curled up in fetal position and wept.

It was in this dramatic scene of disorder and depression that N’Jadaka barged into your office with two guards in tow.

“The fuck going on with you?” His voice abrasive as usual, you watched him look about the room with an expression in between disgust and genuine confusion. Wide-stanced with arms crossed and eyes narrowed, it was clear that he was more annoyed by you than concerned. Of course, you didn’t answer him. At this point, any violence he exacted against you would feel like mercy compared to the anguish you were feeling at this point.

“You ain’t heard what I just said?”

You continued to stare at the floor.

Irritated, he yanked you roughly by the arm to your feet, keeping his grip on your forearm tight enough that you winced in pain but did not cry out. His two guards, visibly tense, cleared the way for him to drag you out.

“Clean that shit up.” He ordered, without looking back, as the doors slid shut behind the two of you.

N’Jadaka was either a terribly fast walker or was prepared to do something drastic. Although your long legs afforded you a pretty long stride, you really were struggling to keep up, giving the effect of resisting when you truly were not. A few times, you stumbled, tripping over your own feet, and he didn’t bother to slow down, towing you along like a child’s rag doll. A few times, you were sure he would pull your arm right out of its socket, if not tear your rotator cuff. Yet, you wouldn’t give the satisfaction of kicking or screaming through the palace like some trapped animal.

So you decided to bear it.

A few minutes into your unwilling trek, his hold on you had gradually loosened and his pace slowed enough that you could now walk upright at a normal pace, even though he never let go of your arm. A few steps behind him, you could only see the back of his head, as he never once turned to look at you and never spoke a word. Yet somehow, you got the sense that he wasn’t actually angry.

You had the fleeting thought that for a murderer, his hands were remarkably warm and soft.

Finally, you stopped at a secured entrance. Your eyes widened as you realized where you were.

These were the King’s own chambers.

Your feet froze in place, and in response, N’Jadaka pressed his hand against your back, and pushed you into the room wordlessly. Your heart began to pound in your chest, and the energy was slowly starting to drain out of your legs. The doors slid shut with a soft thud, and your stomach did a backflip in time with the sound.

You had said you didn’t care what he did to you, but this was different!

N’Jadaka moved past you and while walking towards a heavily adorned California king-sized bed, began to disrobe.

You started to hyperventilate.

The scars along his back seemed every bit as alive as he was, his broad, bare back expanding and contracting with every slow, deep breath. He tilted his head back, staring at the high ceiling for a moment, before he turned around to sit on the edge of his bed. He kicked the sandals off his feet and leaned back onto the bed onto his forearms. The light streaming in from his drawn curtains gave his brown eyes an amber glow, and again, you recalled the beautiful figure in that one seminal vision. He looked at you, but he was neither smirking, nor angry – just expressionless.

Somehow on him that look was terrifying.

He motioned for you to move closer, but you couldn’t move from that spot, paralyzed in fear.

Exasperated, he sat up and rested his elbows onto his knees.

“You making me a suit, right?” he asked with a tired sigh. “You gonna take these measurements or what?”

Tagging: @syndrlla97 @iwantsomethingeternal @1killmonger@chasingsunlight@hoopshoney @destinio1@wakanda-inspired @thadelightfulone @lalasparkles @pessimisfit @youreadthatright @stark-red19 @ruruly20 @bossyboyd03 @autumn242 @heybriheyyy @thelovelyliterary @muse-of-mbaku @dramaqueenamby @bidibidibombaclaat @supersizemeplz @romanceoftheeveryday

[Prologue][Chapter One][Chapter Two][Chapter Three][Chapter Four][Chapter Five][Chapter Six][Chapter Eight]

#erik x reader #erik killmonger x you #black panther #black panther fanfic #erik x poc!reader #erik killmonger x black!reader #by bast

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77marvelimagines · 6 years

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Hidden Heart of Gold

Charles Xavier X Reader

Prompt(s) from anonymous: ohh can i request something?<3 so basically y/ns a pretty choleric person in general buut shes also very protective (only of those she really cares abt and he never really noticed b4) so in cuba she surprises him by being extremely gentle and loving and afterwards she sneaks into his hospital room and talks smack abt the nurses and does her best to help him feel better?? idk i think itd be cute to have this storyline w a normally not so nice character ukno? if u write this thank you💓

Note(s): Being in the hospital for a few or more days on end must be pretty dreary. Good thing Charles has someone there besides him! Thank you for the adorable prompt!!

Warning(s): Slight fluff and humor, mild language.

Word Count: 765.

As soon as Erik left the beach, Charles felt (y/n) shove Moira away. He was immediately in her arms, held closely, as she barked orders to those that remained. Charles couldn’t really make too much out, due to the swimming of his vision and the waning of his hearing. She turned to him suddenly, and all Charles could see was the worry in her hard eyes. He squeezed her hand- when had he grasped it again?- and kept it as close to him as he could. A plane flew overhead, and Charles sighed in relief before he passed out.

------

The steady beep of a heart monitor woke Charles up. He furrowed his brows, an uncomfortable whine escaping him as he rolled his head to the side. Distantly, he registered the sound of someone shifting in their seat. He focused on the thoughts that turned in their head, the worry that coursed through them.

Thankfully, the blinds are closed. Charles appreciated the dim lighting as his eyes fluttered open. It was late, or perhaps early morning. The heart monitor continued to beep, steady, as he surveyed the room. Hank was fast asleep in the corner, and (y/n) was drifting off besides the bed.

Charles breathed out in relief. He reached out and assuaged (y/n)’s worries so that she would finally drift off. He followed shortly after, too tired to stay away.

------

“I swear, Nancy doesn’t know what she’s doing. She should be fired, or placed onto another floor. If she comes in here again and-”

“(y/n),” Charles chuckled, “It’s alright. Nancy is only doing her job, so there’s no need to get so upset.”

“Bullshit, Charles,” (y/n) said back. She raised an eyebrow as Nancy, one of Charles’ many nurses, walked by the door. As soon as she passed (y/n) said, “It’s awfully rude of her to just come in here- and she never says hello, ever! You notice that? I swear, she’s got no manners-”

Charles’ laughter cut off her rant. (y/n) raised an eyebrow to the bedridden man, but smiled nonetheless. Ever since the doctor had come in and explained his paralysis, it’d been hard to get him in a good mood. The change was nice.

“You ought to give her more credit, (y/n), for she deals with fussy visitors like you!” He chuckled again, eyes bright at the sight of her own smile. He could feel the waves of relief coming off of her, could feel the ebbs of her happiness right after.

(y/n) had always been… stubborn, perhaps. Or ill-tempered, stern. There were multiple ways to describe her quick remarks and occasionally cold behaviors. She had a surprisingly warm heart, however. Charles discovered this once when she made chicken soup while he was feeling ill, and another recently when she helped Alex talk through his frustrations with his mutation. It’d been a long while she’d last opened up, the telepath realized.

Actually, it was rather thoughtful that she was still at the hospital with him. The staff had to kick her out every night, as per their rules, but somehow she always crept back in, like a curse they’d never be rid of. Hank had gone back to the house since he and Alex were in charge of renovating, but (y/n) had stayed behind. With her there, his days were… colorful. Staying in a dreary hospital without her would be absolutely horrid.

“Hey, do you still like chocolate pudding?”

Charles broke off his chain of thought and regarded (y/n). “Yes, I do. Why? What are you planning? Don’t say you’re not planning- I know that look.”

“Hush up, you don’t need to know. Don’t look in my mind either! Just- if you happen to find an extra pudding cup stolen from the kitchen, don’t question it.”

“You…” Charles broke out into a grin, despite the furrow in his brows and the questioning tilt of his head. “You are quite amazing, (y/n). If I happen to find extra pudding cup I will savor it. Is there any certain friend of mine I should thank for said pudding?”

“Nope!” She responded, leaning back into her chair with a pleased smile. Which dissipated, of course, as she whispered, “Aw shit, here comes Nancy again.”

“Leave her be!” Charles scolded, yet the smile never left his face.

Honestly, how could he live without (y/n) in his life? Watching her scowl as Nancy walked in, and the amusing, over dramatic faces she made, he decided it was a question he never wanted answered.

#Charles Xavier #Charles Xavier X Reader #Charles Xavier Imagine #Professor X #Professor X X Reader #Professor X Imagine #X-Men #X-Men X Reader #X-Men Imagine #Marvel #Marvel X Reader #Marvel Imagine

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superiorvengeance · 6 years

Text

@deviltoothed

It’s his third escape from that house. No, fourth? It’s hard to keep track, all he really knows is he’s out. He’s out and he has to keep moving before his father Zebadiah realizes he’s broken free. Before he comes after him to drag him back to his own personal hell in the cellar.

He runs for the woods, to find any sort of place to hide. The shackles still locked around his wrists and the iron collar around his neck - each trailing chain that he’d only barely managed to break to get free - make it difficult to push through the undergrowth, but he has to keep moving. Each time a chain snags, aching de-clawed hands yank it free. He has to keep moving. Has to get away. Can’t stop, even for a second.

There’s a clearing up ahead. Somewhere he used to play, when such things were still allowed. Not a good place to hide, but a chance to run without getting caught on something every few steps. Or at least, it should be. No sooner has he stepped into the clearing than there’s a bright flash, nearly blinding him and causing him to stumble backwards. The spots fade from his vision quickly enough and he finds that he’s no longer alone. There’s a man standing in the clearing.

He cowers at first, shrinking back and holding his arms up to try to protect his head, terrified that Zebadiah has somehow found him already. But then his senses catch up and he realizes that this isn’t his father. This is someone new. He smells different. Singed and metallic and so many other scents he can’t place.

Slowly, he lowers his arms to stare up at the man. To marvel for a moment at his strange clothing and his sudden arrival. Behind the muzzle strapped to his face, his mouth is agape.

“Are you the devil?” he asks, fear fading into awe and curiosity. “Have you come for my pa?”

Time travel was a finicky thing and never a fun ride when you yourself did not wish for it. A white beam of light shot at him by an enemy had sent Magneto tumbling back in time after rants of he ‘has something to learn’.

Idiot. He’d deal with the witch later as soon as he found his way back. Where and when he ended up was interesting. Specifically in the path of a young boy in a clearing. Despite Magneto’s fearsome appearance in his armor and billowing cape, he felt quite ill from the trip and struggled to stay on his feet while the boy spoke.

The mutant’s brow furrowed at the picture before him. The fear. The words about a father. The muzzle. Oh that lit a fire in his chest. Rage. At which man, he did not yet know but clearly this child’s father.

Regaining his composure, Erik stepped closer. “No. I am not the devil --- but it seems to me you have already met him --- your father did this to you, did he?” He gestured to the muzzle before his hand rotated and tensed. The muzzle split and fell off the boy’s face. In the same moment, he reached up to pull off his helmet and tuck it underneath his arm.

“Do not be afraid. I will not harm you, boy. -- Now, let’s get you on your feet, and you can tell me your name, yes?” He suggested as he held out a hand.

#616 verse #rp #deviltoothed

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essayofthoughts · 7 years

Note

Wanda "eternal sunshine"s herself from Pietro's mind before dying to protect him from self destructive grief. Who the hell is Pietro without a twin? PAIN. LOTS OF PAIN.

Are you sure you’re not some kind of masochist?

Send me fic prompts!

AO3 Mirror

i.First there is pain, nothing but blinding pain.

Then, there is nothing.

ii.When he wakes things feel… off.

iii.They are kind to him, the Avengers. He’s not sure why. Sometimes he catches them whispering, falling silent when he nears. He considers using his speed to listen in, decides against it..

They have been kind. For now, that is enough.

iv.When he wakes, he is disoriented. Off balance. He leans to his left as though expecting something there - a hand, an arm, a shoulder to bump against. He almost falls several times.

“Psychic weapon,” the Captain tells him. “Of some kind at least. Not much by way of physical damage, but it addled your brains a little. Did something to Clint too, but you saved him from the worst of it.”

Pietro tries to remember. He remembers the city, flying, remembers a flying thing, a gun firing.

Remembers pushing a car to cover the archer. Remembers pain.

Then, nothing.

v.In his pocket is a picture. It shows him, at about seven years old, his parents, his sister. She’s wearing a red dress and has a serious expression on her face. He tries to remember her name and can’t, not for the life of him. His parents names are not as hard - Erik and Natalya.

He unfolds the picture, folds it back up. Slips it into and out of his pocket. There’s a crease in the middle, a line between him and his sister, between mother and father standing behind them.

He assumes they’re dead. His parents died in the shelling, he remembers that for definite, a shell etched with Stark scratched into his memory like a scar.

His sister though… he’s not sure. She’s dead, she has to be, or gone at least; he knows he would not keep the picture for no reason. When did his sister die? During the shelling? While they waited to be saved? Or was it after, on the streets, or in some foster home of illness? Might she still live, somewhere far away?

He can’t seem to remember, no matter how hard he tries.

vi.He goes back to Sokovia, goes to Novi Grad. About a third of the city is intact, another third being repaired. The last third is filled with refugees. He walks down streets and hopes.

Some things feel familiar - a baker calls his name, asks after his health, asks if he’ll return to run deliveries now. At a cafe a woman asks after his sister.

“I don’t know,” he tells her. “I lost her.”

The woman nods, pats his hand sympathetically, looks towards the broken road that leads to the chasm.

She says, “If I see her, I’ll tell you.”

vii.Pietro does not think she will see her.

viii.Novi Grad feels odd, empty. A patchwork of familiar and unfamiliar. He can remember cycling down a street, turning a corner and then… nothing. He stares at a street he knows he travelled down and recognises nothing.

“It addled your brains,” Steve reminds him. “We don’t know how. We don’t know if this will ever change.”

He wants it to change. He doesn’t like not knowing.

ix.He walks streets over and over, night and day. Walks them, jogs them, runs them in all his new speed. Looks at them from every angle. He spends a whole hour picking at a sandwich, staring at the town map, and another in the library, reading books on memory.

He finds a new block of flats where they’d lived before the shelling. It looks almost identical to the old one - run down, broken in, full to bursting with people.

He considers going in, seeing if the layout is the same.

Instead, he walks.

x.The others are still kind. The Captain smiles sadly at him, offers to play baseball, work off some energy. Stark sits in his lab and tinkers, occasionally emerging with velocity-proofed goggles or clothes that change structure and breathability depending on wind pressure. Rhodes and Sam talk of warzones from the other side; a new perspective. Vision offers small reassuring nods, even knife-sharp Natasha offers her own brand of kindness.

Clint invites him to his house.

xi.“Without you,” he says, “I wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t still have me. I wouldn’t see my son born.” Clint’s hand is heavy on Pietro’s shoulder as the archer looks him in the eye. “You’re family now.”

They are not so quietly kind, at the farm.There is no quiet whispering in corners. Cooper and Clint help Laura with the baby and Pietro ends up keeping a sulking Lila occupied. She likes to run across the fields to the trees, climb the trees to a vantage point like her father would and flick stones at him with all the precision expected of Hawkeye’s daughter.

Pietro lets her.

xii.He wanders Novi Grad so often he starts to walk it in his dreams. As he sleeps he walks the remembered-not-remembered streets, walks to the cusp of the chasm and walks his way through the city’s scarlet ghost.

There is the old church, the big synagogue. A street he remembers protesting on. And then, he emerges from the ghost town to the other end of Novi Grad.

It feels like something is waiting for him, something walking at his side. His memory, maybe, or his sister, or the secret that will end this not-knowing.

He goes down to Stark’s lab.

xiii.Stark is brusque around him - around everyone. He shows his kindnesses in fits and starts and avoids everyone often. Pietro approves. It means it feels less like Stark knows something he doesn’t. As though, of all of them, Stark has not participated in their whispering circles.

Stark looks up from some welding when he enters. The blowtorch is set down amongst circuitry and metal bolts, three different multitools and a hammer.

“Roadrunner,” he says, peeling off his gloves.

Pietro takes his photo out of his pocket, unfolds it. “You can find people,” he says. “When you are not being Iron man and not being Tony Stark, when you are part of the team but not fighting… you find things.”

Tony looks at him, goggles on his forehead, grime on his face. “Well,” he says. “That’s one way of putting it, I guess.”

Pietro shows him the photo. “My parents are dead,” he says. “This I know. But my sister- I do not know what happened to her. If she died in the shelling or after it, if we parted ways or if we lost each other, if she died in a protest or the experiments or if she lives on elsewhere.” He looks at Stark, the man looking a little like a rabbit in the path of a car at Pietro speaking more to him in two minutes than he has in two weeks. “I need to know what happened to her. If she died, if she lived. Where she lives or is buried, what parted us. Will you help me?”

xiv.Stark promises to look for his sister. His fingers are gentle when they take the photograph, set it down on a desk and have FRIDAY scan a copy.

“I’ll do what I can,” he says, tilting the photograph in his hands. “I can’t promise anything. Sokovia’s organisation is terrible, worse after Utron. Half of the records are still on paper. But I’ll do all I can.”

Pietro accepts this promise and resumes searching for his memories.

xv.He’s at the graveyard when he finds them.

His parents’ graves, side by side. Erik and Natalya Maximoff their dates and a passage of Hebrew so chipped it can’t be read anymore.

He stays at the graves for an hour.

xvi.It’s Stark who pulls him out of it. His phone starts up with some horrific jingling noise and when he hits the button it’s Stark’s voice.

“Roadrunner,” he says. “You in Novi Grad again?”

Pietro does not answer. He knows Tony can track the phone if he needs to.

“There’s a shelter,” he says. “For homeless teens. Records say you and a girl with the same surname stayed there a few times.”

Pietro’s mouth is dry. “Is she there-”

“Now? No, I don’t think so. But someone there may know where she went.”

xvii.The shelter is one Pietro has walked by and never spotted before. He does not recognise the boarded up front, the battered doors, the sign proclaiming it Novi Grad Youth Shelter.

He wonders why he remembers so little.

There’s no one there now. Stark’s aid efforts have set up better shelters, been building new homes, employed volunteers from the old shelters who can speak any of the myriad languages a Sokovian might call mother-tongue. Pietro walks through empty halls.

In his phone is a list of dates that he and his sister signed into the shelter. The rooms they stayed in, when they left. Pietro remembers… dislike. Having to mark themselves down, where anyone could find them. He continues down the halls, room after room. He searches the one the list says he stayed in, tries to recognise something.

Its as he’s lifting the ceiling tile of one room that he finds them: books.

They are mother’s books, her handwriting, in Hebrew, Sokovian, Russian and Polish, Hungarian edging around Serbian and German and Yiddish. Mother’s books, mother’s knowledge and spells, the books she gave to Wanda.

The name hits him like a punch to the chest.

xviii.Pietro searches the rest of the rooms they’d stayed in and finds nothing. Then he searches all of the other rooms to make sure.

Then he sits on the floor in the main room with the books.

With Mama’s spellbooks.

He remembers when she’d first tried to teach them magic, hands dancing and incense smoke, ritual words in a soft voice. Neither of them could do it.

He wonders how long they saved the books. He wonders why they saved them.

xix.The base is oddly quiet. The others don’t whisper in corners anymore, or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to notice any more.

Stark has no more news on Wanda - Wanda, his sister, he has her name now. He did not have that this morning.

Pietro sleeps half-curled around his mother’s spellbooks.

xx.Wanda. The name turned over and over in his mind until it becomes nonsense. Wanda. Wanda. Wandawandawanda Wanda Wanda Wan da Wa nda W a n d a.

Wanda Maximoff, his sister.

He can barely remember her face.

xxi.He trains with the Captain, with Natasha. Races with Vision and Sam as they fly. He talks to them, shares food with them, is welcomed by them. They sit around the bar and share vodka strong enough it actually does something to his metabolism and the Captain’s.

They are friends.

They are wrong.

xxii.At night he wracks his brains, trying to understand what is missing.

xxiii.This he knows: his sister is gone. He doesn’t know where.

This he knows: his parents are dead and have been going on ten years now.

This he knows: his powers are strong, the team are his friends, everyone knows something that he does not.

xxiv.This he knows: something is wrong.

xxv.He pores over the books, practices his Hebrew and his Hungarian, his Polish and Russian, backwards and forwards until he can barely function.

He reads mother’s books: a charm for protection, to divine the face of your lover, to call a storm, to heal a great wound. To make sacrifice, to swap one’s wounds for one’s unharmed skin, to make living the dead, to call creatures of the wilds to one’s side.

Spell after spell he could not do.

Spell after spell he tries again, hoping.

xxvi.“You doing okay, kid?”

Pietro jumps. Clint’s in the doorway, concern etched into his features. Pietro pushes the books underneath the bed.

“Pietro. You doing all right?”

His jaw’s half-locked in shock, he shrugs. “Something’s off,” he manages. “I know it. I just don’t know what.”

xxvii.Clint makes him socialise, drags him out to dinner with the team, everyone drinking more than they should. At the end of the evening the only people even vaguely sober are cold-turkey Stark, Mr. Magical Metabolism Rogers and himself.

Stark taps at the screen of his watch, sends off some signal, nods to Pietro.

“Go home, Roadrunner. We’ll take care of them.”

xxviii.He doesn’t sleep. He keeps on trying spells.

Levitation, far sight, locator, luck. Languages, binding, unleashing, growth.

None with any result.

Pietro leans forward, over his crossed legs, over the carpet, pressing his brow to the book’s pages.

“Mother,” he whispers. “Please.”

A spark shivers on his palm.

xxix.Wanda trained. Wanda fought. Scarlet shields, scarlet blasts, scarlet tearing apart the toys sent at her. Blood and magic, reality and power, ethereal and physical in one, stronger than mountains and ephemeral as air. It looked like Mother’s magic, was cast by the same movements from her hands. It was magic, in part, of the same kind as Mother’s, just more instinctual. When she tried Mother’s old spells, now, they worked.

Wanda trained. Wanda fought.

xxx.Bullets in her brother’s body. Bullets tearing him from her. Bullets in the blood and Wanda called to it - to blood and magic, to the bond strung between them as twins. Wanda pulled the bullets from him to her, shed her blood for his and combed scarlet fingers through her brother’s mind so he might live without her.

You must not tell him, she sends to the archer. Save my body if you must, and bury it. But you must not tell him. If you do, we are all lost.

With her last breath she casts destruction all around her.

xxxi.With her first breath she chokes.

Pietro’s fist drips blue and silver power, magic burning and desperate in his blood.

Magic awoken by the experiments.

It had taken three spells already to bring him here - one to see if his sister was living or dead, one to locate her body, one to create a portal to an abandoned SHIELD base, an abandoned graveyard.

Pietro had dug up the coffin himself, bare fingers against the dirt.

Wanda’s body was rotting, yes, but even he could see the bullet holes.

xxxii.Wanda chokes, Wanda gasps, Wanda screams.

Wanda rises in a nimbus of scarlet power, her body still glowing with Pietro’s silver.

She lands. She coughs. She looks up at his face.

“Pietro,” she says. “Pietro what have you done.”

And Pietro remembers everything.

xxxiii.The team are shocked, surprised, happy. They welcome her back with open arms.

Something in Pietro seethes.

xxxiv.“You left me!” he rages when finally they’re alone. “You tore through my mind, tore my wounds from me and you abandoned me!”

Wanda looks terribly small, folded on the edge of his bed.

“You could have let me die,” Pietro says. “You should have let me die.”

xxxv.He does not see how Wanda’s face falls as he avoids her. He does not let himself care.

He’s good at that, refusing to let himself. Once, long before, he’d refused to fear his sister, refused to abandon her.

Then, she’d abandoned him.

xxxvi.He feels her presence at the edge of the group, the looming scarlet mass of her mind. He avoids it. After what she’d done, tearing herself from his mind, tearing his wounds from him, his death, his purpose-

After she’d left him alone, with no memory, no purpose… he will not let her back into his head.

xxxvii.“Hiding from your sister, Roadrunner?” Stark’s standing by the doorway, hands tucked into suit pockets.

Pietro watches him for a moment before, “After what she did to you, aren’t you?”

Stark walks over, plops himself onto the seat beside him.

“Believe it or not,” Stark says. “No.”

Stark’s dressed up smart - by now, all of the team will be. Pietro’s clothes are hanging from the back of the door in a fancy bag.

“The press conference is in fifteen minutes. Now, you and I both know it will take you fifteen seconds to get your suit on and get over there and that you’re going to wait to the last minute to stress-test the new fabric I designed way sooner than intended but, Pietro?” Stark is looking keenly at him. “Maybe don’t let the press know you hate your sister right now.”

xxxviii.Stark isn’t defending her. Perhaps that is the only reason he doesn’t throw the suit in the ocean and flee. He arrives five minutes early instead, and hides himself in the back.

xxxix.“You know she did it to make sure you’d live, right?”

Clint’s voice is calm, steady.

“You know that you lied to me.”

xl.Wanda doesn’t apologise. Wanda doesn’t try to apologise.

Wanda’s eyes say What apology could ever be enough?

xli.One night he wakes to see her scarlet eyes.

He skids across the room, out of the room, and is halfway to Canada when Stark and Vision catch him.

“Roadrunner,” Stark says. “If you want to go for a midnight run, maybe put some shoes on first.”

Pietro curls against the tree that’s holding him up. Beneath his feet, blood glistens on the grass.

He says, “I won’t go for midnight runs if you keep her away from me.”

xlii.“I do not understand,” Vision says. “She watches you and does not talk to you and you ignore her and avoid her.” He rolls his next words around his mouth, pauses before saying,” Before, you did not hesitate with each other.”

Pietro remembers. Remembers how her hands holding his calmed him in the castle, how they turned to each other for advice and protection, for comfort and consideration.

Remembers, I’m not leaving you here and Come back when everyone else is off, not before and her scarlet fingers scraping over his mind, tearing his memories apart.

Pietro hunches his shoulders. “You do not know what she can do,” he says. “What she has done.”

“She wiped your memories of her,” says Vision.

Pietro turns, looks Vision in his unnaturally green eyes. “I trusted her,” he says, “And she destroyed that.”

xliii.Wanda stays at the edges. She dares not step closer. She could, she could, and the team would welcome her in, make a space for her. Already Vision smiles at her in the corridors, the Captain and Widow nod. Clint brings her a mug of coffee from the bar and sits beside her, unflinching.

They come to her, and she is careful not to push them away.

She doesn’t want them, though. What she wants, what she needs, the torn and tattered bond to her brother, is something she may never have back.

xliv.“You tried talking to him?” Clint asks. He’s found her latest hiding place - the roof, scattering seed for the birds. He stands in the shade by the door and watches.

“I can’t,” she says. “I cannot insult him like that.”

“Isn’t an insult if it’s an apology.”

Wanda huffs a laugh, an exhale of breath out her nose, a slight jolt to her shoulders. Even with her brother’s glittering blue magic she can still feel the scars of the bullets she took from him. “I could apologise,” she acknowledges. “But it would mean nothing. For me to do what I did to him, after all we shared, all we knew... There is no apology that could ever be enough.”

xlv.It’s killing her though, slowly and surely. She and Pietro relied on each other, had grown around each other. In her last moments she’d made a scaffold to give Pietro strength, to make him last, to help him support himself.

She has no such thing to help her.

It is ironic, she thinks. The one thing that saved Pietro’s life was to tear her from his memory. The thing that will kill her a second time is that she did so.

xlvi.He runs from her. He avoids her in the day, yes, but the one time she drew close, sensing a nightmare in his mind even though she tries not to look, dares not touch, he woke and he ran from her.

When he stumbled back in his feet were covered in blood.

He fears her. He fears her as everyone has always feared her. Mama had looked at her anger and worried for her, feared for her future. In the children’s home the other children had feared her, her rage, her drive, Pietro at her side like a guard. The kids on the street had feared her rage, had respected her knowledge, had called her witch. The soldiers had feared her powers, List and Strucker her potential, the Avengers had feared her - do fear her - and now...

Pietro never feared her before. Had never let himself, had chosen to refuse to feel fear in the face of all she could do. Had been the one person unflinchingly honest, never letting fear catch his tongue.

Now he runs from her. Now he avoids her.

Now, when she tries to soothe his nightmares, his heart is going so fast that Stark’s readout says “heartrate critical” when Pietro screams at them to keep her away from him.

Now, Stark is no longer his nightmare.

She is.

xlv.“You died for him,” Vision says. She hadn’t heard the door open, but maybe it hadn’t at all. He can phase through walls after all, can fly without effort. He settles on the edge of the roof beside her. “I don’t understand why he hates that.”

Wanda smiles at him, small and gentle. “It’s not that,” Wanda says. “It’s a matter of trust.”

“You took his memories from him,” Vision says. “To save his life.”

Wanda stares at the horizon, kicks her heels against the concrete, taps her fingers against the very edge of the building.

“Would he have done the same, in your position?”

xlvi.He’s eating less and less, sleeping barely at all. He’s only in the base when she isn’t - she goes off for some training exercise he returns to sleep and grab a shower. She returns and he goes for a run, or for a training exercise of his own.

This dance goes perfectly until one day he’s at the Bartons and Lila asks about his sister.

Pietro’s over the horizon in a heartbeat.

xlvii.“What happened?” asks Laura down the phoneline. Clint had called first, Lila sniffling and tearful in the background, but he’d passed the phone to Laura within two sentences. “I don’t know what happened, Lila’s incredibly worried she’s said something awful and that you’re never coming back and she won’t say a peep to us. What happened, Pietro?”

Pietro leans against a tree, feels the bark press into his forehead. His throat feels like lead, his stomach like some horrible void, his hands are still trembling even where they hold the phone to his ear.

“Ha-,” he starts, but he can’t make himself finish. He sighs, swallows, tries again. “Laura,” he asks, sounds out the familiar word, lets his mouth find itself again. “Has my sister been visiting you?”

xlviii.Laura yells at Clint for the first time Pietro’s ever heard, a blistering outpouring of protectiveness he thought she reserved only for her own children, her own husband. Clint, cowed, heads out with a Quinjet to pick him up. While he waits, he sits at the base of a tree, and stays on the line with Lila.

“‘m sorry,” she mumbles as soon as she’s passed the phone. “I didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have just run.”

“Is she really that horrible?”

Pietro picks at the grass around him, tears up blades of it and scatters them around him. “I don’t know,” he says. “She wasn’t before. But-” and his throat is closing up, is filled with lead and dread and he can’t make himself speak until he takes ten deep breaths. “What she did,” he says. “I can’t-”

“Is it like...” Lila says, trying to fill the gaps for him. “Like when Coop and I fight. And we hit each other and we get bruises and cuts and Mom tells us off but we had fun and it helped so it doesn’t matter. But if I tried to actually hurt Coop, like really hurt him, like kill him hurt him. That isn’t fun and that isn’t okay.”

Pietro laughs, tilts his head back against the tree and laughs. “Yeah,” he says, “Like that. You trust Cooper and he isn’t going to hurt you. And Cooper trusts you and you aren’t going to hurt him. But if you then did hurt him-”

“He would hate me,” Lila says. “Like you hate her.”

They fall silent for a while, a peaceful quiet, and Pietro can hear at the other end of the line - Cooper playing with Nate while Laura rattles around the kitchen, taking out her protectiveness on unarmed kitchen utensils.

“Are you okay?” Lila asks after a while.

“No,” Pietro says. “I don’t think so. But I’m getting better.”

He can hear the smile in Lila’s voice as she says, “You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” he says, but he’s smiling now too. “What do you want to do when I get back?”

They’re discussing plans to build a proper tree-house when the Quinjet eventually lands, and Pietro’s heartrate is finally back to normal.

xlix.“You’re one of the family,” Laura says once he gets in and she’s given him a hug. “Of course I’m protective of you.”

Pietro can’t help the shaky smile he gives at that.

l.They don’t put the twins on missions together. Even if it’s an emergency they keep one back, keep one in reserve, and pile everyone else in instead.

This is why Pietro feels absolute shock when he sees what is unmistakably Wanda’s scarlet at his back. He spins, runs backwards, sees his sister standing between buildings, a vast scarlet shield holding back bullets meant for him.

“Run!” she yells in Sokovian, “Get out of here!”

And then the shield falls.

li.Pietro wakes dripping in sweat, his heart as fast as a hummingbird’s.

He’s at the base. He’s at the base, and in his room, and he can’t see Wanda’s scarlet anywhere, can’t feel her mind anywhere nearby.

The final image of his dream dances before his eyes.

Wanda, going down in a hail of bullets.

lii.He dreads seeing her, fears the slightest spot of scarlet in the halls, avoids her still.

His heart races as soon as he senses her mind growing near, as soon as he hears her voice over comms.

He wonders how he hid this fear all those years, how he could possibly have refused to fear her at all, when he fears her this much.

liii.He sees her face, glimpses it through a window as he’s running and he’s bowled over by the fear and the relief he feels.

It was a dream, she isn’t dead.

She isn’t dead. She can still hurt him.

He stays in the fallen sprawl he came to rest in and waits for his pulse to slow before he makes his way into medical.

liv.Doctor Cho clucks at him as she patches him up. “You are not doing yourself any favours,” she says. “Are you sleeping enough? Eating enough?” She pokes his ribs, shines a light in his eyes. “You do not look well.”

Pietro doesn’t know how he looks. It’s not like he checks a mirror every day. He knows he feels tired and that he rarely has any appetite and that his sleep has been messed up beyond belief and littered with nightmares.

“Your heartrate is worrying,” she says. “And you’re shaking, did you realise?”

Oh. He hadn’t.

lv.More nightmares. Nightmares of Wanda stepping into bullets in his place, memories of the bullets digging into him, the terrifying blinding moment as Wanda’s scarlet fingers had scraped through his mind and locked his memories of her away. Nightmares of Wanda dying - in Novi Grad, in the base, halfway around the world - and being torn between relief and dread each time.

It’s worse when he wakes and he spots her around the base.

lvi.Wanda uses scarlet to sleep, to wake, to survive around base. She avoids Pietro now, as much as he avoids her, stays out of his way if only to ease his worry after Clint told her what happened at the farm.

She’s tired and she’s worried: not seeing Pietro, not being able to glance and know in a moment how he’s doing is nerve-wracking for her, but after what she’s done she isn’t going to make things worse for him, not if she can help it.

She’s committed one crime against him, against all that they ever were. She won’t do so again.

lvii.She stops visiting the Bartons. Pietro needs a safe space to call his own and if the base can’t be that for him any more then she cannot begrudge him the Bartons freely-given hospitality. She stays in her room, or she sits with Vision and reads, stays out of the way of the paths her brother walks.

There is a gulf between them, unbridged, and she thinks there is no hope of it ever being repaired.

lviii.He sees her leaving her room and the fear-relief hits him again. He stumbles to a halt, his blue fading out behind him.

For a long moment they stare at each other in silence.

He wants to ask Why did you do it? but he knows why. He wants to ask How could you do that to me? but he knows that too. He wants to ask Are you ever going to even try to apologise? but he can’t unstick his tongue. He can hear his heartbeat racing like a hummingbird’s.

Wanda looks at him, a deer in the headlights. Her mouth is slightly open - shock or about to speak, he doesn’t know, until she eventually licks her lips, closes wet eyes.

“I don’t know what to say,” she says. “I could apologise, but it would be meaningless. I would save you anyway I could all over again. I would apologise as best I can, but-”

Pietro manages, just, to unstick his tongue. “If you touch my mind,” he says. “I’ll kill you.”

Wanda nods, blinks. As she walks away Pietro sees the glimmer of tears on her cheeks.

lix.He can see her and it doesn’t kill him. He can speak to her, even if he feels like he’s going to lose what little lunch he had.

He’d wanted to know what happened to his sister. Wanted to see her and speak to her, to know that she was well.

He’d wanted the world to feel right again, to stop feeling off balance, but now, knowing everything, it only feels worse.

lx.This he knows: nothing was ever truly right.

#wanda maximoff #pietro maximoff #mcu fic #nanyoky #my fic #ask

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dawnkiwi-blog · 7 years

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Fortune of A Broken Man - Avengers fanfiction

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes-centric | #2 in the Wretched Adrenaline series

Summary: Barnes is transferred from Wakanda to NYC at the behest of Tony Stark. Tony then hires a personal friend and mentor, Lizbeth Burke, to unscramble Barnes' fried brain. Barely visible on the horizon, enemies stir.

Featuring: Bucky Barnes x Lizbeth Burke Steve Rogers Wanda Maximoff Erik Selvig Darcy Lewis

Genres: Horror/Drama

Word Count: 2,442 Chapters: 50 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Vulagarity / allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness / war and PTSD

Opening: Up In Arms

Bleak. The first feeling he was met with happened to be a crummy, filthy bleakness. The type of grating numbness that accompanies extreme agony.

A hell few know; only those with trauma and scars deeper than a ravine can sympathise, let alone empathise, with the sort of acute dissonance the man in the straps felt.

Who was he?

He didn't know. Glimpses of winter, crimson, and the fleeting sounds of groaning metal and screaming engines ghosted through his dazed mind. It disappeared faster than he could register having experienced it.

Something in the back of his mind pulled him forth into consciousness, and the man's eyes shot up, drinking in the agonising, blinding whiteness before him.

A voice somewhere- behind you -spoke swiftly, spitting out foreign sounding memories. He knew what they were saying but it didn't make any sense.

Neutralise.

Acid pumped through his veins. It carried a wildfire of panic; white hot fear and symbiotic rage. Reaching behind him, the man felt his knuckles connect with flesh. A crunch filled the air. That language he recognised fluently.

The fear told him that these people were the wrong people. The rage spoke volumes- his target (his mission?) had disappeared. He had been compromised. No, It. It had been compromised.

Neutralise.

His vis- its vision focused. A woman and a man. Two people directly in front of It, another behind, countless unseen. White lab coats.

Its handlers wear white lab coats, but these ones are nondescript; that haunting red star absent from their lapels.

Wrenching forward towards them only to have thick straps halt Its attack, the Lab Coats stumbled back and fell with fear into the wall behind them.

More words were yelled and It felt meaty hands clamp down on both shoulders.

It roared, and with a grunt swung sharply to the right, landing another crunching blow. A shriek echoed around the room, and the grip on It weakened for a moment.

It was all It needed.

Another hearty lurch forward and the straps snapped, allowing It to careen towards the Lab Coats. Sinewy arms locked around the woman, tightening across her neck before throwing her to the side with a sickening crunch.

She lay lifeless in on the floor.

Its heartbeat steadied as Its conditioning directed the next fatal blow. One sharp punch from the left arm and the man went down, too.

The yelling increased in volume and number.

Through Its hair, It spied the large man who must have been restraining It. Taking a step forward, Its left arm reached the man, with a glinting silver hand closing around his neck.

"Barcala!"*

Cold darkness washed across It.

"You fucking idiot," a small woman snapped brashly. Taking a weighted step towards the sallow-faced man with the intent to smack some sense into him, she was stopped by Nicholas Fury who stepped between them.

"Sit down," he ordered. "We've already lost two lab technicians, we don't need you taking the life of another."

She barked a laugh out, shaking her head. "Oh, and who's fault is that? I told you not to put untrained techs in that lab, and yet there you went, throwing them into his fucking chambers. This one is on you, Fury."

Restrained anger stared back at her from his good eye.

"What?!"

He pointed behind her at the door. "You need to calm down, Miss Burke. Take some time and come back when you can start working again."

She didn't bother to deign him with a response. Twisting around to leave, she made sure to slam the door behind her.

"Useless baboons," she muttered angrily, storming down the sleek white corridors. "Never trust anyone with the jobs you can do yourself."

Making her way towards the elevator, Miss Burke- Lizbeth Burke -felt the chip on her shoulder grow.

She had been hired some months prior by the ever enigmatic Tony. In the years past she had worked with him, acting as a live-in shrink and generally helping him organise his mind. Initially hired by Pepper to help counsel the trauma inflicted on Tony by the Ten Rings, she eventually ceased the therapy in favour of advising the billionaire Avenger on the psychology behind those who he sought to destroy.

After the events in New York, in which Loki had probably given most of the city's population some form of PTSD, Lizbeth had found herself in between a rock and a hard place. The offer of employment by SHIELD was an enticing one; given her deliciously accumulating debt, the pay had her hesitating to turn them down. But the end result meant she would have to become a live-in shrink for the higher ranking employees and likely the Avengers themselves.

That headache had her saying no and cutting the phone line from her shitty apartment.

Then, of course, Tony had made another grave mistake- albeit with good intentions- and suddenly NYC was pushing the ozone layer and a demented celestial freak threatening to wipe out humanity. That had been a fun time. The price of incalculable intelligence happened to be various forms of apocalypse and all the usual comic book jazz. Tony really needed a good hug and probably a Tempurpedic mattress.

The aftermath had been beyond biblical. In less than a week, all international flights had been grounded, and the UN disbanded, only to be replaced by a juiced-up version demanding the heads of the Avengers. Naturally, they had not obliged, and now with SHIELD technically disbanded, America had become a superpower in the sense of a merry band of severely traumatised superheroes. Nobody on a federal level could actually control them, and given the public favour the whole 'defenders of earth' thing had given them, they had been cautiously left alone by SHEILDs counterparts.

International relations were at an all-time low, but Wakanda had formed an intelligence deal with the United States, so they at least had that.

Her bills had gone sky high as well as her bank interest, though.

Now, two and half years since Loki had bullied Earth, Tony was at her door waving a pretty green cheque in her face and offering her accommodation in his egotistical popsicle of a tower. He had also paid her debts off.

Money can do awful things to a person.

She sighed, stepping into the elevator and jabbing the button for the lobby.

Ugly elevator music attempted to soothe her on the way down.

"JARVIS, can you tell Tony to put some better music in these things? I feel like I'm Gatsby or something."

"Of course, Miss Burke," the charming English AI replied.

"Please and thank you," she muttered, stepping out into the bustling lobby of Stark tower.

Once she was out on the street, she let the blissfully ignorant hubbub of Manhattan wash over her and inhaled the fumes and grime of the Big Apple.

She fished a cigarette out of her pocket and raised it to her lips, intent on some carcinogenic relief.

"You know that will give you cancer, right?"

She slumped, groaning at the handsome sight of Sam Wilson. "Why won't you people leave me alone?"

He chuckled sheepishly, "Sorry?"

Lizbeth shook her head, "No, I'm sorry. How are you doing, Mr Wilson?"

He joined her, standing in a small industrial alcove beside the building's entrance. "I'm alright, but you don't seem to be," he probed. "Something the matter?"

"You mean you haven't heard?" she said, eyeing him. His silence prompted her to continue. "Two techs down in less than five seconds, courtesy of the Winter Soldier."

He sucked in a breath, tensing.

"Yeah," she said lowly, finally lighting her smoke. "Fury's had me studying him the last week. I submitted a report and he took it upon himself to have his people," she spat, "Give him some TLC. Now they're cooling off in the morgue."

Sam stayed silent and tense. The man needed a good massage. They all did. In the silence that ensued she inhaled deeply, feeling a bitter burn coat the back of her throat. Exhaling, she blew the smoke into his face. He winced, snapping out of it.

"It's been a while since we had a session," she said, staring at him intently.

"Yeah, I just.. I've been doing good recently. Steve's been trying to immerse himself in current culture and it's given me something to focus on."

She nodded, flicking the ashes on the pavement. "You know I'm only a text away, Butterfly."

His lips pursed fondly. "How's.. your research going?"

Now that was a good question. Good and bad didn't fit the bill; that was too subjective. She could say her research was progressing at a rate faster than expected, at least by SHIELD's expectations, but then again- their expectations were of a different calibre to her personal criteria.

"Things are developing as expected," she said, "In that, what HYDRA has done to the man exceeds what most could survive. Barnes is a wreck. Frankly, I'm surprised he's lived this long. And yet at the same time, it's a miracle he hasn't done more damage than he already has. I, personally, don't believe he is a lost cause."

Sam watched her intently. "You know how I feel about him, about all of it. Do you think it's justified?"

Another paradoxical question. "I think you are justified in your personal feelings towards him."

Sam just sighed, running his hands through his hair. She stared at him, lost in thought.

Lizbeth rarely felt emotions; rather, she experienced them but struggled to correctly process them. It leads to blunt speech and a complete obliteration of social cues. Not that Lizbeth couldn't read the cues or atmosphere, she just didn't give a damn to adapt to them. If people wanted to speak to her, they knew what they were getting into.

She had formed a comradery with Sam Wilson. The man had a standard form of PTSD. His experience in watching his best friend get knocked from the sky like a baseball had birthed a quiet pain in him. After being recruited by the great and holy Captain America, the former soldier had felt his wounds reopen. And of course, when Barnes had nearly killed the man atop the Helicarrier, the PTSD he had slowly been recovering from had been reborn like a demonic Jesus.

Sometimes it felt funny being a personal shrink to superheroes. When she'd been a child, one of the only programs she could glimpse on the old tube TV was an animated version of the Justice League. None of the Avengers had a JL feel, but she supposed Wilson would be Hawkman, and Clint would be Green Arrow.

"Well," Sam said, "Will you join Steve and I for a drink on Saturday?" Hope evident in his voice.

Lizbeth shook her head resolutely. "You know I don't mingle with you pringles."

He sighed, pushing off from the wall. "I think you need to socialise more than we need counselling."

She barked a laugh, flicking the butt to the pavement and stamping it out. "Now that, Wilson, is what makes you a funny man."

"I'll see you around?"

She nodded, fluttering her fingers in a farewell. "See you, soldat."

Harsh iridescent light scrutinised the immobile warrior as only inanimate objects can.

Chewing on a toothpick, Lizbeth stared at the prone form of James Barnes.

"Well?" Fury said.

Her eyes did not stray from Barnes. Unfocused but deep in thought, she gave the toothpick a particularly hard crunch.

"Do you want to know my thoughts on Barnes or your attempt at being an armchair psychologist?"

There was a vague grunt of resignation; Fury had been dealing with her for long enough to know when picking a fight was viable. Which would be never.

She spun around, pinning him with her pitch black eyes. Panda bags made them seem almost cartoonishly large, and the harsh lighting turned her almost paste white. A ghoulish figure if Fury had ever seen one.

"I think," she started, chewing musingly, "That I can have Barnes up and walking around the tower in less than a week. I mean I could have him at the dinner table with the Captain," she said with a grin, "tonight. But for safety's sake, you know that thing you didn't do earlier, I'd play Saturday as a good bet."

To Fury's credit, he didn't even twitch at the slight.

"Walk me through your method," he said, moving to stand beside her and watch Barnes.

Since a well-placed needle- rather, a thrown syringe from a higher ranking tech- Barnes had been out cold. Only three hours had passed since 'the incident' as it was now being referred to.

"Don't think that's a good idea," she mused.

Fury sighed. "Miss Burke, I cannot give you clearance to do anything unless I know what you're doing."

"I don't need clearance," she said, shaking her head, "But I'll humour you. But, my dear man, if you try to undermine me, I'll be out of this tower and knee deep in southern mud before you realise I even knew."

It wasn't an idle threat, they both knew.

"So," she started, "What I'll be doing is fairly simple. I've read the dossier compiled on him and consulted Natasha on the 'Russian Methods'. What needs to happen first is Barnes understanding where he is. His dissonance is deep; when he doesn't know where he is, it means his mindset will not revert to Barnes, and he will remain the Winter Soldier."

Lizbeth tapped a small silver disk on the pane below the one-way window. "The microphone installed here will allow me to communicate with him for the time being. I'll require Rogers present as he is the only person Barnes knows he can trust, and also the only man who has knowledge on who Barnes really is. Once I've established 'first contact' and familiarised Barnes with the situation, I'll begin reconstructing his memories with associative prompts, imagery and lights."

"Seeing as he can't escape this awful room," she said with a disgusted glare at Fury's reflection, "The restraints can be removed. I want them gone, and his bed made properly. No white sheets or pillow. A quilt is important, as warmth is the opposite to his previous resting areas. He will be served old school American cuisine. Home cooked. Rogers can do that."

Fury stared at her with an unreadable expression. "Whatever happens," he said, "Is on you."

Lizbeth shimmied her eyebrows at him. "I know that."

"I'll leave you be then," he said, walking towards the door.

"Send Rogers up," she replied, "I still haven't met him, you know."

A/N: *Barcala is latin for an idiot, or a fool.

This is the second story in a 16 part series. This sounds like a lot, but keep in mind; this is already finished.

The first story is titled 'A Beautiful Mind' and is focused on Tony. ABM is finished and will be published soon.

It is NOT necessary to read ABM to understand this story.

The sequel to this fic is also finished, and so far I've typed and edited (sorta) 450k words. Can you believe that shit? I'm fucking amped over it.

#mcu #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #james barnes fanfiction #james barnes x oc #tony stark #avengers fanfiction #oc #bucky barnes x reader #avengers #HYDRA #doctor strange #sebastian stan #winter soldier #winter soldier x oc #winter soldier fanfiction #wamasterlist

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