#acute lead poisoning

[victusinveritas]

[pucksandpower]

Baby Steps

Charles Leclerc x single mother!Reader

Summary: you are barely staying afloat, desperately trying to wrap your mind around your impending motherhood while juggling being a press officer for Scuderia Ferrari … Charles shows you that you don’t have to do it alone

Warnings: pregnancy, family abandonment, and harassment

You grip the edges of the trash can tightly as your stomach lurches again. The half-digested remains of your breakfast spill into the plastic liner with a sickening splatter. Straightening up slowly, you take a few deep breaths and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. The smell rising from the can makes your stomach roll threateningly once more.

Turning away quickly, you lean against the side of the Ferrari motorhome, eyes closed. The sun beats down relentlessly, and you can feel sweat beading at your hairline.

This “morning” sickness is no joke — it seems to strike at all hours of the day. You thought you had gotten away with a quick breakfast break an hour ago when Carlos was in a team briefing, but apparently not.

Footsteps on the gravel make you open your eyes. You pray it’s not a member of the press, or, god forbid, Carlos. The last thing you need is a photo of the Ferrari press officer tossing her cookies behind the paddock. But no, it’s Charles Leclerc striding towards you, his brow furrowed.

You straighten up and attempt nonchalance. “Good morning, Charles.”

He slows, glancing between you and the extremely obvious trash can of vomit. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah, fine,” you say breezily. “Just a bit of food poisoning, I think. Had a questionable chicken salad for dinner yesterday.”

You notice Charles is wearing a soft grey t-shirt and track pants, his hair damp from the shower. He must have just finished with physiotherapy. He looks so effortlessly handsome, it’s frankly unfair. You suddenly feel acutely aware of the sheen of sweat on your face and your limbs heavy with fatigue.

Charles’ face remains creased in concern. “Food poisoning? Have you been to the medical center?”

You wave a hand. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just 24 hours of hell before I’m back to normal.” You attempt a smile, but have to grab the trash can again as the smell from it hits you like a wave.

Charles springs forward and grabs your arm as you retch miserably. “Whoa, take it easy,” he says, supporting you until the heaving subsides.

You stay hunched over, breathing hard. The world is spinning a little. You hear Charles say firmly, “Okay, come with me. Let’s get you sat down.”

He keeps a hand under your arm and leads you into the blessedly cool motorhome. The rich scent of coffee fills the interior, reminding you that you haven’t managed to keep any food down today. You sink gratefully onto a padded bench at one of the tables.

Charles sits opposite you, his green eyes studying you intently. “When did the sickness start?”

You sigh, shoulders slumping. The jig is up. “About four weeks ago,” you mutter.

Understanding dawns on Charles’ face. “Oh. Oh!�� His eyes flick down to your still-flat stomach. “So you’re ...”

“Pregnant. Yes.” You drop your head into your hands.

“Well, hey, congratulations,” says Charles gently. “That’s really exciting.”

You huff out something between a sob and a laugh. “Exciting? More like a nightmare!” You run your fingers back through your hair and look desperately at Charles. “You can’t tell anyone, okay? Not even Carlos. I can’t risk anyone finding out about this. If I lose this job ...”

Charles’ brows draw together again. “Why would you lose your job? You’re Carlos’ press officer. I’m sure he’d be thrilled for you.”

You shake your head rapidly. “No, no way. I can’t take time off. The season just started! Carlos needs me, I organize everything for him. The travel, the events, the media, everything!” You bite your lip anxiously. “Maybe … maybe after the baby comes, I can figure something out. But I have to keep this quiet until then. Please.”

Charles reaches over and lays a hand on your arm. His touch is gentle but firm. “Y/N. Working yourself into the ground won’t be good for you or the baby. Have you thought about taking a sabbatical? Just a few months to rest, focus on yourself.”

Panic flares in your chest. “No! No, I can’t.” Your breathing quickens. “You don’t understand — I have no one else. No partner. No family. This job is everything. If I lose it ...” You trail off, trying to blink back the sting of tears.

Charles is silent for a long moment. Then he says, “Okay. I understand this is your decision. And I promise I won’t tell Carlos or anyone else.” He hesitates. “But Y/N, please take care of yourself. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

You nod jerkily and avoid his earnest gaze. With a shaky breath, you push yourself to your feet. The motorhome tilts sickeningly for a second.

Charles rises too, watching you with concern. “Will you be alright?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. You start to head deeper into the motorhome, desperate to lie down before the nausea returns.

“Y/N,” Charles calls after you softly. You pause, glancing back. “Congratulations again. You’re going to be a wonderful mother.” He gives you a small, warm smile.

You swallow hard. “Thank you, Charles,” you whisper. Then you turn and continue on unsteadily, one hand braced against the wall.

You make it to the small office that passes for your private quarters on race weekends. Collapsing onto the ergonomic desk chair, you stare up at the ceiling and place a hand over your still-flat belly.

A baby.

Your baby.

Fear and wonder tangle inside you.

You must have dozed off, because the next thing you know a hand is gently shaking your shoulder. You jerk awake to find Carlos standing over you, his eyebrows drawn with concern.

“Y/N? Are you ill?”

You stand up too quickly and immediately regret it as the room spins. Carlos grabs your shoulder to steady you.

“I’m fine,” you say hoarsely. “Just needed a quick nap.”

Carlos frowns, clearly unconvinced. “Charles said you were throwing up outside. That you have food poisoning?”

You make a mental note to kill Charles later. “Uh, yeah. Bad chicken salad, I think. But I’ll be okay.” You attempt a reassuring smile.

Carlos sits down on the edge of your desk, watching you closely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were unwell? You know you don’t have to worry about me, I can look after myself for one day.” His dark brown eyes are filled with worry.

Guilt twists your gut. Carlos has always been extraordinarily kind and thoughtful, a rarity in the high stakes world of Formula 1. You hate lying to him.

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t want to let you down. But you’re right, I should have said something. I’m sorry.”

Carlos shakes his head immediately. “No, don’t be sorry. Just focus on feeling better, yes? Take tomorrow off too. I order you to rest,” he adds with a small grin.

You smile weakly back. “Okay, boss.”

Carlos stands and gestures to the tiny table bolted to the wall. “I brought you some tea and crackers. Hopefully you can keep it down.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate you checking on me.”

He smiles. “Of course. Feel better, Y/N.” With a last lingering look of concern, he turns and leaves you in peace.

You look at the steaming tea and crackers and feel tears prick your eyes again. Carlos is a good man. Too good, probably, for the pragmatic demands of Formula 1. You know you should tell him about the pregnancy. But the thought of losing your place here, on this team, fills you with dread.

This high stakes world of racing is all you’ve known for the past three years. You can’t imagine life outside the bubble of the paddock, away from the adrenaline and pressure. Away from the team. Away from Carlos. Away from Charles.

With a deep breath, you sit up straight and tear open the crackers. You need to think about this rationally. Maybe Charles is right and you do need to slow down eventually. But for now, for the next few months at least, you have to keep going like nothing has changed.

You place a hand on your stomach as you nibble a cracker. “It’s gonna be okay, little one,” you whisper. “We’ll figure this out.”

***

The smell of coffee turns your stomach these days, but you still make your way blearily to the breakfast buffet each morning. Carlos is an early riser, and you need to be available whenever he is ready to start the day. You scan the offerings, deciding toast is the safest option, and reach for a couple of dry slices.

“Oh, Y/N!”

You turn to see Charles holding out a pre-packaged parfait cup. “I grabbed an extra yogurt by mistake. Do you want it?”

You hesitate. Your first instinct is suspicion — this is the third time this week Charles has “accidentally” had an extra snack to offer you. But the yogurt does look appealing ...

“Sure, thanks,” you say, taking the cup from him. Charles shoots you a smile before grabbing a plate and continuing down the buffet.

You sit down next to Carlos with your toast and yogurt. He glances up from his phone. “Morning. Feeling better today?”

You nod, mouth full. In truth, the nausea has continued, but you’ve gotten better at hiding it from Carlos and powered through.

Charles joins you both a few minutes later, greeted by Carlos with a fist bump. You peel open your yogurt while half-listening to the two men discuss the upcoming practices.

The sweet, fruity parfait is cool and soothing on your sensitive stomach. You find yourself polishing it off in record time. As you scrape the last bit of yogurt from the bottom, you realize Charles is watching you.

“Good?” He asks.

You lick the plastic spoon clean before answering. “Yeah, really hit the spot, thanks.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle with a smile. “No problem. I’ll try to grab two tomorrow.”

You feel your smile grow fixed. This is getting ridiculous. Charles Leclerc does not care this much about your yogurt preferences. He’s up to something.

Over the next week, Charles’ thoughtfulness continues. A cold bottle of water when you’re looking hot and tired. A sandwich from a local bakery when you missed lunch. Your favorite chocolate bar when you mention a craving in passing. Always with an innocent smile, as if he’s not playing Superman to your pretend Lois Lane.

It all comes to a head on race day. You’re in the scorching sun on the grid, already feeling the fatigue of the hectic weekend. Carlos is doing his pre-race routine, so your attention has lapsed. Suddenly a blessedly cold bottle of water appears in front of your face. You look up to see Charles grinning down at you.

“Stay hydrated,” he says with a wink.

That does it. “Okay, enough!” You snap, smacking the water bottle away. It falls to the ground with a thud, water glugging out.

Charles’ eyes go wide with shock. “Y/N?”

Grabbing his arm, you pull Charles several steps away from eavesdropping mechanics. “Why are you doing this?” You hiss. “I don’t need you to baby me!”

“What?” Charles looks completely bewildered. “I’m just trying to help-”

“Well, stop,” you interrupt sharply. The hurt on Charles’ face makes you falter, but you press on. “I don’t need your pity. I’m fine.”

“Pity?” Charles frowns. “It’s not pity, Y/N. I care about you.” He places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re always taking care of everyone around you. Now you need someone to take care of you too.”

His kind words hit you like a gut punch. Oh God, the stupid hormones! You feel hot tears spring to your eyes.

Charles’ alarmed expression softens. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you ...” He pulls you into a hug. One hand smoothes your hair while the other rubs comforting circles on your back.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he murmurs. You cling to him, embarrassed by your raw emotional response but unable to stop the tears.

After a minute the wave passes. You pull back, wiping your eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Charles smiles kindly. “Nothing is wrong with you. But I understand this is a difficult time.” His expression turns serious. “If you ever need anything, please ask me. I’m here for you.”

Looking up into Charles’ earnest green eyes, you feel a rush of gratitude. Whatever awkwardness lingers between you has evaporated. Charles is a true friend.

You squeeze his hand. “Thank you. That means a lot.” Glancing around, you notice some odd looks from passing crew members. “We should probably get back to work before people think there’s a full-blown soap opera going on over here.”

Charles grins. “Agreed. But this conversation isn’t over. Dinner tonight in my room?” He raises an eyebrow.

You laugh, blinking away the last dampness from your eyes. “It’s a date.”

***

You smooth your hands down your dress as you approach Charles’ hotel suite, suddenly feeling nervous. You’ve been in drivers’ rooms countless times for work, but this feels different. More intimate.

You take a steadying breath and knock. Charles opens the door, looking unfairly handsome in a crisp button down shirt.

“Y/N! Come in.” He steps back to allow you inside.

The suite is spacious and modern, with floor to ceiling windows along one wall looking out over the glittering city. Charles leads you through the living area to a set of glass doors. “I thought we could eat out on the balcony,” he explains, opening the doors with a flourish. “The fresh air will be good for you and baby.”

You step outside and have to stifle a gasp. A small table is elegantly set for two, a vase of flowers in the center. String lights twinkle overhead. “Charles, this is beautiful!”

He looks pleased. “I’m glad you like it.” Pulling out a chair, he gestures for you to sit.

As he takes the seat opposite you, you notice several covered dishes on the table. Charles sees you looking and smiles a bit sheepishly. “I, uh, called my mother earlier.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Charles rubs the back of his neck. “I asked her what foods she craved when she was pregnant with me and my brother. So I ordered a bunch of that from room service, in hopes there might be something you’d like.”

A lump forms in your throat. You reach over and squeeze his hand. “Charles, that is so incredibly thoughtful.”

Pink tinges his tanned cheeks. “Of course. I want to take care of you.”

You chat comfortably over food and Charles’ excellent choice of wine for you — sparkling grape juice. He relaxes as you praise the chicken and melon he ordered.

When you sit back contentedly, Charles fixes you with a thoughtful look. “So, do you know how far along you are?”

You hesitate. “About three months now.”

He nods. “And have you been to a doctor yet?”

Your fingers find a groove in the wooden table to trace. “Not yet.” At his surprised look, you add defensively, “I’ve just been so busy with work. But I’m sure everything is fine.”

“Still, you should make an appointment soon. Just to be safe.” Charles’ tone is gentle.

You nod without meeting his eye. An uncomfortable beat passes.

“Do you ...” Charles pauses delicately. “Forgive me, but … do you know who the father is?”

Your cheeks flame. You stand abruptly, walking over to the balcony railing. After a moment Charles joins you, leaning on the rail at your side.

“I’m sorry, that was too personal,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “It’s okay. I just ...” You glance up at him. “He’s no longer in my life.” You look away, a lump in your throat.

Charles doesn’t ask anything more, just moves closer in a gesture of silent support. You stand together breathing in the night air. The twinkling city sprawls before you. For a moment, the future doesn’t feel quite so frightening.

Eventually you stifle a yawn behind your hand. Charles glances over. “You must be exhausted. I should let you get to bed.”

You smile gratefully. He walks you to the door of the suite. Pausing, you stand on tiptoes and kiss Charles lightly on the cheek. “Thank you again for dinner. For everything.”

His eyes shine as he gazes down at you. “Of course. Sweet dreams, Y/N. And ...” He brushes a feather-light touch over your belly. “Sweet dreams to you too, little one.”

You feel your heart melt just a little. With a last smile, you head down the hall to the elevators. As the doors slide closed, you catch one last glimpse of Charles watching after you.

Back in your smaller, blander room, you change for bed in a happy haze. Sliding between cool sheets, you let out a contented sigh. Tonight was lovely. Charles’ thoughtfulness reminds you there are still good people in the world. For the first time in weeks, you feel a spark of hope.

You drift off to sleep with a hand resting gently on your belly. Everything seems less frightening now that you aren’t alone. Whatever happens next, you and your baby will get through it together.

***

The buzz of the media pen is giving you a headache today. Or maybe that’s just the pregnancy. You blink heavily, trying to focus on Carlos speaking into the microphone in front of you. You hit record on your phone as he answers the first question. It’s your job to capture every word to ensure he’s not misrepresented later.

The reporter’s voice fades in and out. You sway slightly, shaking your head. Just need some fresh air. You take a step away from the crowd, vision blurring at the edges. Dark spots dance across your eyes. The concrete floor rushes up to meet you-

“Y/N!”

Strong hands grab your shoulders, slowing your collapse. Your head spins as you try to make sense of it.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Charles’ worried face swims into view above you. You part your lips but no words come out.

There’s loud commotion around you now. You feel yourself being shifted, lifted. Snatches of Charles’ voice pierce through the fog.

“She’s pregnant ... get help ... ambulance ...”

You try to cling to consciousness but it’s like grasping at smoke. The world goes dark.

When you resurface, it’s to antiseptic white walls and a steady beeping. Hospital. An IV pulls at your arm as you shift.

“Y/N?” Charles appears at your side, relief breaking across his face. “Thank God. You’re awake.”

Before you can respond, he’s disappeared again, calling for a doctor. You try to push yourself more upright but your limbs feel like lead.

A brisk older woman in a white coat enters, glancing at the monitor beside your bed. “Good to see you awake, Miss Y/L/N. You gave us quite a scare.”

“What happened?” Your voice comes out hoarse.

“You fainted from low blood pressure. A common issue in pregnancy, but yours seems to be more severe.” The doctor flips through your chart with a frown.

Charles stands anxiously at the foot of the bed. “But she’ll be alright now?”

The doctor hesitates. “I’m recommending complete pelvic rest and limited activity for the remainder of the pregnancy. Strictly no standing or walking for prolonged periods.” She pins you with a sharp look. “And if your blood pressure drops again, we’ll have no choice but to put you on full bed rest.”

Your stomach drops through the floor. “What? No, I can’t! I have to keep working, I-”

“Y/N.” Charles’ voice stops your panicked rambling. His face is lined with concern as he takes your hand. “Your health is what matters most.”

The doctor nods briskly. “Precisely. No job is worth risking your or your baby’s safety.” With a final warning look, she departs.

The moment she leaves, you burst into tears. Harsh, gasping sobs wrack your frame. This is a disaster. Without being able to stand or walk for long stretches, you’re useless to the team. You’ll be fired for sure. And then what will you do? You have no one, no other skills-

Warm, strong arms wrap around you as you weep. Charles cradles you against his chest, making low soothing sounds.

“Shh, it’s going to be alright,” he murmurs, stroking your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”

You clutch fistfuls of his shirt, burying your face in the soft cotton. The steady thump of his heartbeat slowly calms your hysteria.

When the tears finally subside, Charles eases you gently back against the pillows. His thumbs brush away the moisture from your cheeks.

“I know you’re scared,” he says quietly. “But I promise, I will do everything I can to help you. We are in this together now.”

His green eyes radiate such sincerity, you feel some of the panic and despair lift. You cling tightly to his hand, anchoring yourself to him like he’s a rock in a stormy sea.

***

You pick listlessly at the greyish meat and mushy vegetables on your hospital dinner tray. At least Charles had the foresight to sneak in some contraband snacks earlier — you polish off the last crumbs of the cookies he brought, wishing futilely for something more appetizing.

A knock at the door precedes Charles peeking in. “Hungry for something better than hospital food?” He holds up a paper takeout bag and shakes it enticingly.

You brighten immediately. “Charles, you’re my hero.”

He laughs and enters, pulling a table over your lap to serve as a makeshift dining surface. Soon plastic containers of pasta, salad, and fresh bread are opened, the savory scents making your mouth water.

Charles watches fondly as you tuck in. “I wasn’t sure what you’d feel up to eating. But who doesn’t like Italian food?”

You make a noise of emphatic agreement through your full mouth. Charles chuckles.

When you finally surface for air, he clears his throat. “So I was thinking ...” Charles busies himself folding and refolding your napkin. “My apartment in Monaco is pretty big for just me. And it has a guest room that’s just sitting empty.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting for him to go on.

“Well ...” Charles rubs the back of his neck. “I thought maybe when you’re discharged, you could come stay with me for a while. So I can make sure you’re not overexerting yourself.”

You frown slightly. “Oh. That’s really kind, but I’ll be fine once I’m out of here.”

“Will you?” Charles levels you with a knowing look. “No offense, but you’re not exactly the best at asking for help when you need it.”

You open your mouth to protest, but can’t really argue with that.

“Let me do this for you. For my own peace of mind too,” Charles implores gently. He takes your hand, blue eyes full of sincerity. “Please?”

Looking into his earnest face, you feel your weak resistance faltering. Still ... “I don’t want to be a burden,” you mumble half-heartedly.

Charles squeezes your hand. “You could never be. I care about you, Y/N.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “I want to take care of you and the baby.”

The warmth in his voice melts away the last of your reluctance. And honestly, the prospect of having Charles doting on you is far preferable to being alone in your small, dreary apartment.

You meet his hopeful gaze. “Okay. If you’re sure you don’t mind, then … I accept your kind offer.”

Charles’ answering smile rivals the sun. “Yeah? Oh, that’s fantastic!” He sweeps you into an enthusiastic but gentle hug. You cling to him, feeling the nervous knot that’s been your constant companion for weeks finally start to loosen. Everything will work out.

That night as Charles is leaving, you call his name softly. He pauses, one hand on the door.

You twist your fingers in the blanket, suddenly shy. “I just wanted to say … thank you. For everything. I’ll find a way to repay you someday, I promise.”

Charles’ expression softens. He comes back and squeezes your hand. “You don’t owe me anything. Just focus on yourself and that little one.” He strokes a finger over your belly. “That’s all the repayment I need.”

With a last smile, he slips out, leaving you to fall asleep with a heart full of gratitude and growing affection for your kind rescuer.

***

You smooth your hands nervously over your dress as you approach Fred Vasseur’s office. This is it. Time to tell your boss that you’ll be leaving him in the lurch smack dab in the middle of the season.

Charles gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It will be okay. Just explain the situation.”

You take a deep breath and nod. Charles opens the door and gestures for you to enter first.

Fred rises from behind his desk, surprise flickering across his face. “Y/N, Charles. What can I do for you?” His gaze darts between you curiously.

Your mouth goes dry. Charles gently guides you to sit in one of the chairs facing Fred, taking the other himself.

“Y/N has something she needs to discuss with you,” Charles begins calmly. “I’m here for moral support.”

Fred’s eyebrows raise but he nods for you to go on. Your hands twist together in your lap.

“Well, I ...” You have to pause and swallow hard. “I recently learned that I’m pregnant. And I’ve developed some, uh, complications that mean I can’t travel or be on my feet much.”

Fred’s eyebrows climb higher. “I … see. Congratulations?” He still looks perplexed.

Charles jumps in. “What she’s trying to say is, she needs to take a leave of absence. Doctor’s orders.”

“Ah.” Understanding settles on Fred’s face. He turns back to you. “I’m very sorry to hear you’re unwell. Of course health must come first.”

You feel yourself relax slightly. “So I can take a sabbatical? My job will still be here when I’m able to return?”

“Absolutely.” Fred nods. “You’ve been invaluable to our team. Your role will be waiting whenever you’re ready.”

You could cry with relief. “Oh, thank you! That means the world.”

Fred smiles kindly. “Think nothing of it. Focus on your health and that baby. We’ll manage in the meantime.”

Charles reaches over to clasp your hand supportively. “Is there anything else she needs to know before starting her leave?”

Fred considers this. “Y/N will have full pay during sabbatical, of course. And keep me posted on any support you require — medical, household, anything at all.”

You clutch Charles’ hand, too overwhelmed to speak. He smiles. “Very generous. We appreciate that greatly.”

After finalizing a few details, you both stand. Fred comes around the desk to shake your hand. “Best of luck with everything. Let me know if you need absolutely anything.”

You whisper a heartfelt thank you before allowing Charles to guide you out. Safely in the hallway, you turn and fling your arms around him.

“Charles, thank you,” you murmur into his shoulder. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

His strong arms come around you, cradling you close. “Of course, Y/N. I meant what I said — I’ll be by your side every step of the way.”

You cling to each other for a long moment, his steadfast support washing away your lingering fears. As long as Charles is with you, you know everything will work out just fine.

***

You fidget in the generic mint-colored exam room, paper crinkling beneath you as you perch on the edge of the table. Charles sits in a nearby chair, scrolling through his phone, the picture of calm. You wish you shared his zen attitude.

A brisk knock precedes the door swinging open. A smiling older woman enters, glancing down at her chart.

“Y/N? I’m Dr. Boucher, nice to meet you.” Her smile widens as she looks between you and Charles. “And you must be the dad! Wonderful.”

Your mouth drops open to correct her, but Charles beats you to it. “That’s right, thank you,” he says easily, standing to shake the doctor’s hand.

You snap your mouth shut, eyes widening. But the doctor has already moved on, washing her hands at the sink.

“Now then, let’s take a look at this baby, shall we?” She pats the exam table.

You lie back, hiking up your shirt to expose your belly. The cool gel makes you shiver as the doctor smears it over your skin. She places the ultrasound wand low on your abdomen and moves it slowly.

The screen blooms to life, blurred black and white shifting until a shape emerges — a tiny profile, curled arms and legs distinct. You gasp softly. There’s your baby.

Dr. Boucher smiles. “There we are. Looks to be about 16 weeks along. Growing beautifully.”

You can’t tear your eyes away from the screen. Your throat feels tight. After so many weeks of secrecy and fear, this precious little life finally seems real.

“And there’s the heartbeat.” The doctor turns up the volume, and a rapid thumping fills the room. “Nice and strong.”

Tears spill over your cheeks before you can stop them. A glance over shows Charles watching the monitor intently, green eyes shiny with emotion. He reaches for your hand, gripping tightly.

When the appointment ends, you both exit the office in a daze. As you walk down the street to Charles’ car, he turns to you.

“That was … incredible,” he says softly. “Seeing your baby for the first time ...” He trails off, at a loss for words.

You lift his hand and press a kiss to the back, hoping he understands the depth of your gratitude. Charles smiles tenderly in return.

Safely home in Charles’ plush apartment, you curl up together on the sofa with mugs of tea to continue gazing at the ultrasound photos. Charles slips an arm around your shoulders, his thumb idly stroking your arm as you chatter excitedly about preparing a nursery.

This moment, here with Charles, your child’s heartbeat still echoing in your ears … it’s the closest thing to pure joy you’ve ever known. The future finally feels bright with hope. You lean into Charles’ warmth and send up a silent prayer of thanks for this man and the new life he’s given back to you.

***

You curl deeper into the plush couch in Charles’ apartment, cradling your mug of tea. Rain patters against the windows overlooking Monaco’s glittering harbor. The cozy scene makes you feel safe enough to finally open up.

“Charles?”

He glances over from where he’s poking at the fire. “Hmm?”

You twist your fingers together nervously. “There’s more I should tell you. About how I got pregnant.”

Charles rises and comes to sit beside you, face open and attentive. Taking a deep breath, you begin.

“It happened last winter, during the off-season. I went back home to Italy for a while, to the little town outside Milan where my family lives.”

You stare into your tea, remembering. “There was a man vacationing there, from Rome. Dario. We met in a cafe and just … clicked. He was handsome, charming, a perfect gentleman.” Your lips twist wryly. “Or so I thought.”

Charles remains quiet, letting you gather the words.

“We spent every day together for two weeks. Took long walks, went on romantic dinners. When it was time for him to leave, we ...” You trail off, face warming.

“You made love,” Charles supplies gently. You nod, still not meeting his eyes.

“I thought it meant as much to him as to me. But after he went back to Rome, his texts and calls slowly stopped. And then I found out why.”

Your voice drops to a pained whisper. “He was married. His ‘business trip’ was just a chance to fool around. When his wife saw my texts on his phone … it exploded. And then my family found out about the affair.”

Finally you lift your head. Charles’ face is lined with compassion. “They disowned me. Called me a fool and a harlot. It didn’t matter that I was lied to — as far as they’re concerned, I brought shame upon our family.”

Hot tears spill down your cheeks. Charles immediately pulls you into his arms. You cling to him, crying into his shoulder as he rubs your back.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “You did nothing wrong. This Dario took advantage of you, and your family should have supported you.”

Charles holds you until the storm of tears passes. When you finally pull back, he cups your face in both hands, brushing away the lingering moisture with his thumbs.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says softly. “I know that wasn’t easy. You’re so incredibly strong.”

Leaning forward, he places a tender kiss on your forehead. Then his palms slide down to cradle your rounded belly.

“I’ve got you now,” Charles murmurs. “Both of you. You’ll never be alone again.”

Nestled in his lap, you close your eyes and just breathe. The remnants of hurt and betrayal wash away, replaced by the safety of Charles’ embrace. Whatever comes next, you have found your sanctuary here, with him.

***

You wander through the apartment looking for Charles, one hand braced on your lower back. Your belly has popped noticeably in the last couple weeks, throwing your balance off.

Not finding Charles in any of the usual spots, you head down the hall towards the spare bedroom. When you push open the door, your jaw drops.

The room has been completely transformed. Bright sunshine spills through the windows onto whitewashed walls. A plush rug covers the hardwood floor. In one corner sits a fully assembled crib, stuffed animals piled inside.

Charles stands back to admire his work, shirtsleeves rolled up and hair adorably mussed. He turns when you gasp softly.

“Y/N! I wanted to surprise you.” His grin falters. “Do you like it?”

“Like it? Charles, I love it!” You blink back happy tears, wandering further inside. Charles’ face lights up.

“I wasn’t sure what color to paint, so I left the walls white for now,” he explains, coming over to slip an arm around you.

You lean into him, gazing around. “It’s perfect. Our baby is so lucky to have you.”

Pink tinges Charles’ cheeks. He kisses the top of your head. “I’m the lucky one.”

You decide on a pale green for the walls. Charles immediately fetches paint supplies, but hovers anxiously as you start rolling color onto the first wall.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” He eyes your protruding stomach. “The fumes can’t be good ...”

You wave off his concern. “I’ll be fine! Here-” You dip a roller in paint and offer it out. “Make yourself useful instead of worrying.”

Charles accepts the roller reluctantly. Soon you’re both working side by side. Charles takes on the higher parts of the walls that you can’t comfortably reach anymore.

Humming under your breath, you step back to critique your work so far. As you do, your foot catches on the paint tray and you stumble. Charles reaches out to steady you, but not before a fat drop of paint lands on his cheek.

“Oops!” You clap a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh at the green splotch on his tanned skin.

Charles narrows his eyes in mock indignation. “You think that’s funny, do you?” Before you can react, he flicks his loaded paintbrush at you, spattering your shirt.

You gasp in delighted outrage. “Oh, it is on!” Grabbing your roller, you swipe it down his arm.

Charles lets out a laugh of surprise. Soon paint is flying from both directions. You run around each other, giggling and slipping on the drops coating the floor.

Finally Charles catches you gently by the waist. You’re both absolutely covered in pale green, sides aching from laughter. Your faces are inches apart, smiles fading into something more tender.

Slowly, Charles leans in and presses his lips to yours in the softest, sweetest kiss. You melt against him, hands coming up to cradle his jaw.

When you finally part, Charles rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he confesses, a little breathless.

You smile, heart soaring. “What took you so long?”

His answering grin outshines the sun. There, surrounded by dreams of the future, you share another lingering kiss.

***

You settle back against the mountain of pillows, trying to find a comfortable position for your unwieldy body. At nearly 8 months along now, your belly feels impossibly huge. Luckily Charles’ plush bed offers plenty of space to sprawl.

Speaking of Charles, he appears in the doorway holding a bottle. “Ready for your massage?”

You eye the bottle of oil eagerly. The stretch marks crisscrossing your stomach have been itchy and tight. “Yes please.”

Charles props up pillows behind you so you’re half-reclining. Then he drizzles some of the oil into his palms, warming it up before smoothing his hands over your bump.

You sigh in bliss at his gentle but firm touch. The fragrant oil soothes and softens your irritated skin. Under Charles’ ministrations, the discomfort slowly ebbs away.

His strong hands glide over every inch, easing out the aches and pains. As Charles works, he murmurs to your belly. “There you go, little one. We’re going to make your home nice and cozy.”

Your heart clenches at the tender scene. Even after all these months of living together, it still sometimes hits you how domestic this is. Sharing a home, sharing a bed … it’s everything you secretly longed for but never expected to have. A real family.

You trail your fingers through Charles’ soft waves. His eyes lift to meet yours, soft with affection. The look on his face steals your breath — pure adoration, like you’re the most precious thing in his world.

“I love you.” The words slip out unbidden. Charles’ hands still. For a heartbeat, you’re afraid you’ve said too much.

But then he surges up to capture your lips in a searing kiss. “I love you too,” Charles whispers fiercely when you finally break apart, both panting. “So much.”

He seals his words with another drugging kiss. Your hands clutch him close, heart near bursting with joy.

Suddenly Charles breaks the kiss with a gasp. His wide eyes dart down. “Did you feel that?”

You start to shake your head no, distracted by the sensation of his calloused hands massaging your belly, but then you feel it — a distinct thump against your insides. Your baby shifting and kicking.

Charles’ face lights up. “There it is again!” He laughs in wonder. “The little one is saying hello.”

Happy tears blur your vision. Charles presses a delighted kiss to your stomach. “I can’t wait to meet you,” he whispers tenderly.

Through your tears, you smile at the man you love. The one who gave you and your child a home when you had nothing. However you got here, this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

A dull ache starts low in your back as you crawl into bed. You shift and stretch, trying to get comfortable, but can’t seem to. Charles notices your restlessness.

“Alright?” He murmurs sleepily, rolling over to rub your back.

You nod. “Yeah, just some back pain today.” Probably from lugging around this massive belly.

Charles makes soothing noises and continues massaging you until he drifts off. You finally manage to doze too.

Sometime in the night, you jerk awake. The sheets under you are soaked. For one confused moment you think you wet the bed. But then it hits you.

Your water broke.

“Charles!” You shake his shoulder urgently.

He comes awake with a snort. “Huh? What’s wrong?”

“It’s time! The baby-” You break off with a hiss as the first real contraction clenches your belly.

That wakes Charles up fully. “The baby? It’s coming?” He practically falls out of bed, all long limbs flailing.

You have to stifle an inappropriate giggle at his panic. “Yes, so we should-” Your instructions die as Charles sprints from the room. Alright then.

You shake your head in amusement and heave yourself to your feet, one hand braced on your lower back. Waddling slowly after Charles, you find him hyperactively rushing around the living room, tossing items randomly into your hospital bag.

“Okay, let’s go!” He grabs the overflowing bag and dashes out the front door. You stare after him in disbelief then lower yourself carefully onto the couch to wait.

Not thirty seconds later, Charles comes barreling back inside. “Oh God, I forgot you!”

You have to laugh at the panic on his face. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Looking marginally calmer, he helps you up, frantically gathering your bag in one hand while keeping the other wrapped around you.

You lean your weight on him during the next contraction, breathing through it. “It’s okay. But we should really go now.”

Charles practically carries you down to the garage and bundles you into his Ferrari in record time. He drives well over the speed limit, one hand clutching yours the whole way.

At the hospital, Charles refuses to leave your side even for a second. He holds the gas and air for you to breathe during contractions, whispering how strong and amazing you are.

When the time comes to push, the pain is unimaginable. You nearly give up, sobbing that you can’t do this. But Charles is there, guiding you through it, telling you that you absolutely can. And with one final scream, your son enters the world.

The shrill cry is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. Charles cuts the cord with trembling hands. Then the nurse lays your wailing, squirmy son on your chest.

You press kisses to his downy head, tears of joy streaming down your face. Charles gazes at you both with pure reverence.

“His name is Matteo Charles,” you whisper. Charles lets out a choked sob at the middle name.

Too soon, the nurses take Matteo for cleaning and checks. One asks Charles if he’d like to hold him. Charles looks to you questioningly, and you nod through your exhaustion.

Charles settles into a chair, shirtless, and Matteo is laid on his bare chest. Charles strokes a gentle finger over Matteo’s cheek, seemingly enraptured.

“Thank you,” he rasps to you. “For our beautiful boy. Thank you, mon amour.”

This is everything you never knew you needed — a family, a home, and an overflowing love you once thought would forever be lost to you. But you’ve found it now, here in this room, together.

***

The sharp cries jolt you from sleep. With a groan, you roll out of the warm circle of Charles’ arms. Your body still aches and protests as you make your way to the nursery in the dark.

Picking up little Matteo, you carry him to the rocker and situate him at your breast. He latches on eagerly, cries fading to soft snuffles.

Charles appears in the doorway, hair adorably mussed. “Everything okay?” He asks through a yawn.

“We’re good now.” You smile tiredly down at your nursing son. His downy hair and scrunched features are all you — you find yourself thankful that there is barely any indication that his biological father even participated in making him.

Charles comes to perch on the ottoman, watching Matteo. “I can’t believe he’s really here,” he murmurs. “Our son.”

Pride swells in your chest. Charles has fully embraced his role as Matteo’s father, as naturally as breathing.

When Matteo finishes eating, Charles takes him to gently pat his back while you right your nightgown. He kisses your son’s head when Matteo lets out a tiny burp.

Back in bed, you curl into Charles with Matteo nestled safely between you. Charles has a race this weekend, his first since the birth. The thought of him leaving fills you with anxiety.

In the morning, Charles confirms your fears. “I’ll just tell Fred I’m not coming this weekend,” he says casually over breakfast. “The team will manage without me. One of the reserve drivers can take over for a few days.”

Your head jerks up. “What? No, Charles, you have to race.”

“But I don’t want to leave you two!” Charles gestures helplessly to where Matteo snoozes in a bouncer.

You catch Charles’ hand. “This is your dream. Matteo and I will be right here cheering you on when you get back.”

Charles wavers. You soften your voice. “It’s only for a little while. We’ll be okay.”

Finally he nods reluctantly. You know how hard this is for him — but Charles was born to race. You won’t let him give that up.

The morning Charles is set to fly out, he clings to you and Matteo like a second skin. You practically have to peel him off at airport security.

“I’ll be back so soon,” he whispers fiercely. One last kiss, and then he’s gone.

The apartment feels empty and too quiet. But you fill the time singing and playing with Matteo, keeping yourself busy until the race.

You and Matteo cuddle close on the couch to watch Charles zoom around the track. Your heart swells with love and pride seeing your man do what he was meant to.

When Charles wins, he shouts his ecstatic thanks to you and Matteo over the team radio. The podium champagne gets sprayed directly into the camera for you.

Finally Charles is home, sweeping you and Matteo into his arms. “I love you both so much,” he murmurs in wonder. You whisper it right back, nestled safe in the arms of your little family.

***

The energy in the Albert Park paddock is electric as teams prepare for the first race of the 2025 season. You feel a thrill just being back, Matteo cooing happily in your arms. At nearly six months old now, he’s ready for his first race.

Charles bounces on his toes, unable to contain his excitement. “Are you ready to see Papa race, Matteo?” He tickles Matteo’s belly, eliciting bubbly giggles.

You head first to the Ferrari garage, where the mechanics crowd around eagerly to fawn over Matteo. Lewis gives you a careful hug, peering curiously at the baby.

“Lewis, meet Matteo,” Charles says proudly. At Lewis’ questioning look, he adds “My son.” The way he says it brooks no argument.

Lewis’ eyes widen slightly but he just smiles. “Hi Matteo!” He offers a finger for Matteo to grip.

Fred comes over next, cooing over how much Matteo has grown. You enjoy the familial atmosphere, everyone fussing over your boy. Matteo basks in the attention.

Charles takes him down to the front of the garage to watch the crews work on the cars. He points out parts of the sleek machines, explaining them seriously to Matteo as if he understands. Matteo just gazes adoringly up at his Papa.

When Charles finally straps into the car for practice, you have ear muffs ready for Matteo’s sensitive ears. Charles blows kisses to you both before pulling on his helmet. Matteo squeals and waves his little fist as the car roars out.

In the hotel that night, you set Matteo on the bed while Charles showers. Stripped down to his diaper, your son kicks his chubby legs excitedly.

Charles emerges in comfy clothes, his hair still damp, and laughs at Matteo’s antics. “Alright, my little race car driver, time for bed.”

He tickles Matteo’s tummy as he puts on a fresh diaper and snaps up his pajamas. Then Charles cradles Matteo close, humming softly as he sways back and forth to soothe him. Your heart clenches at the tender scene.

Once Matteo is deeply asleep, Charles lays him gently in the travel crib. He turns to you with a soft smile. “I can’t imagine life without him now.”

You slip your arms around Charles from behind. “He loves his Papa so much already. Your biggest fan.”

Charles covers your hands with his, gazing at Matteo. “I’m going to win tomorrow for him.”

And he does. On the podium, Charles looks down to where you cradle Matteo in one arm, and gently showers you with champagne. Matteo’s delighted laughter is the sweetest sound.

This is everything you’ve ever wanted.

***

The energetic buzz of the Italian Grand Prix washes over you as you stroll hand-in-hand with Charles, your son cradled safely in his arms. At nearly a year old now, Matteo is fascinated by the vivid colors and cacophony of sounds surrounding him.

Charles playfully bounces Matteo as you weave through the crowded walkways, pointing out the sights and sounds. “Look Matteo, there’s the cars! Vroom vroom!” Charles mimics the roar of an engine. Matteo’s delighted giggle melts your heart. You can’t help but grin, chest swelling with love and pride for your little family.

You’ve just about reached the looming Ferrari motorhome when an absolutely venomous female voice shrieks out, “You!”

Every muscle in your body instantly tenses. You freeze mid-step, heart lurching into your throat. Whipping your head around, you see an immaculately dressed woman barreling directly towards you, her face mottled an ugly shade of rage-induced crimson.

“You disgusting harlot!” The woman spits with unrestrained fury. “You filthy whore!”

Stunned, you instinctively take a faltering step backwards, nearly stumbling. Charles’ strong arm immediately wraps protectively around you and Matteo, steadying you. His body angles partly in front of yours and Matteo’s smaller form, shielding you both on pure instinct.

The deranged woman continues her tirade, advancing until she’s nearly screaming in your face. “Oh, I know exactly who you are, you reprehensible little homewrecker!”

Before you can even begin to formulate a response, a ghost from your past suddenly materializes behind the enraged woman. A man you hoped to never lay eyes on again.

His eyes blow wide at the sight of you, Charles, and the infant cradled against Charles’ chest.

The woman — his wife, you realize with dawning horror — grabs viciously onto his arm, her razor-sharp nails digging in hard enough to leave crescent-shaped gouges. “Just look at her!” She shrieks, spit flying from her mouth. “Parading that little bastard child around like it’s something to be proud of!” She violently thrusts her finger towards Matteo, still safely ensconced in Charles’ embrace.

Your son, sensing the onslaught of hostile energy, immediately begins wailing in distress. You instinctively reach out to take him from Charles, desperate to comfort your frightened boy. But Charles subtly shifts his stance, moving further out of her reach, as he focuses intently on gently bouncing and shushing Matteo in an attempt to calm him.

Matteo’s biological father simply stares, slack-jawed, at the sobbing infant. The gears visibly turn in his head. “Is that ...” he chokes out, “Is he … mine?”

“No.” Charles’ immediate response is biting and unequivocal. He clutches Matteo tighter to his chest. “Matteo is my son.” Though his voice remains steady, you can see a muscle in his jaw ticking from the effort of holding back more heated words.

But Dario clearly does not accept this response. His eyes narrow calculatingly as he continues scrutinizing the wailing baby. Behind him, his unhinged wife keeps up her tirade of slurs and accusations, whipping the gathering crowd into greater frenzy.

You feel lightheaded, paralyzed. This is a living nightmare. Distantly you are aware of camera phones pointed your way, capturing every wretched moment. Charles seems to realize the same, his handsome face darkening with rage.

With frightening efficiency, Charles strides directly over to the nearest paddock security officers and has a brief, terse exchange. Moments later, two bulky guards firmly take hold of the still-screaming woman and shellshocked man, forcefully escorting them away. The crowd reluctantly disperses, murmuring.

Charles immediately returns to envelope you and Matteo in a fiercely protective embrace. “It’s alright now, you’re both safe,” he soothes, though his rapid heartbeat belies his calm words. Matteo’s panicked sobs have faded to tiny hiccups against Charles’ neck.

The rest of the chaotic day passes in a blur. Much later, in the privacy of your hotel room, Charles reveals that he pulled every string and called in every favor necessary to have Dario and his deranged wife permanently blacklisted from all Formula 1 events.

His voice shakes with quiet rage as he describes how close security came to needing to restrain him physically.

Finally he takes your face so very gently in his hands. “I promise you, I will do anything and everything to protect our family. You and Matteo are my entire world. Nothing will ever hurt you as long as I’m breathing.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, you collapse against his solid chest. Charles’ strong arms anchor you in place as you cling to him. He continues murmuring fervent assurances, pressing kisses to your hair.

Despite the ugliness of the day, you know with utter certainty Charles will shield you and Matteo from the darkness of your past. Your family is still perfection in your eyes.

***

“Papa, I wanna be a race car driver like you when I grow up!”

Your five-year-old son looks up at Charles with big, adoring eyes as he makes this pronouncement over breakfast one morning.

Charles freezes with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He slowly sets it down, gazing at Matteo with surprise and pride. “You do?”

Matteo bobs his curly head eagerly. “Yeah! I wanna drive fast cars and win like you! Can you teach me?”

Charles melts, ruffling Matteo’s hair. “Of course, buddy. We’ll have to convince your maman first though.” He shoots you a meaningful look.

You shift uncertainly. Of course you want to encourage Matteo’s interests, but motorsport is dangerous ...

Charles seems to sense your hesitation. “Why don’t you think about it, mon amour? No need to decide yet.” He winks at Matteo, who grins in excitement.

Over the next few days, your two boys put on a full court press to sway you. Charles points out safety advances in karting and helps Matteo make adorable PowerPoint slides with photos of your son in race helmets. They both unleash heartbreaking puppy dog eyes.

Finally you cave. “Alright!” You laugh, holding up your hands in surrender. “You can start teaching him the basics.”

Matteo and Charles high-five so hard it makes a cracking sound. “Yesss!” Charles pumps his fists while Matteo dances in glee. Seeing their matching enthusiasm melts away the last of your reluctance. Your little daredevil was born for this.

The next weekend, Charles takes Matteo to a racetrack an hour outside the city. It’s just a small circuit, but Matteo gazes around with wide eyes, gripping Charles’ hand tightly.

Charles shows him the karts and safety gear, patiently explaining how everything works. Then it’s time. Charles helps strap Matteo into a kart made for kids, snugging his helmet gently under the chin.

“Ready, mon petit champion?”

Matteo gives him a thumbs up, practically vibrating with excitement. Charles grins and drops the visor down. “Alright! Let’s do this!”

He gives Matteo a little push to get the kart rolling onto the track. Your son quickly gets the hang of working the gas and brakes. Charles jogs alongside, gesturing and calling out instructions.

Gradually he lets Matteo take full control. Your little boy zips around the course, hair blowing out the back of his helmet. His delighted laughter echoes around the circuit.

Watching from the sidelines, Charles records it all on his phone, face alight with joy and pride. “That’s it Matteo, you’re doing amazing!” He cheers.

This is only the beginning. But seeing the utter bliss on both their faces, you know Matteo has chosen the right path. The Leclerc legacy will live on.

***

“I’m here in the pit lane with Charles Leclerc on the momentous day his son, Matteo Leclerc, makes his highly anticipated debut with Scuderia Ferrari. Charles, you must be incredibly proud right now.”

The Sky Sports reporter holds her mic out to Charles as he stands, beaming, in front of the scarlet Ferrari garage. Charles nods, looking slightly choked up.

“Incredibly proud doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he replies earnestly. “This has been Matteo’s dream since he was just a little boy. To see him achieve it, to be standing here watching him drive for the team I devoted my life to … it’s indescribable.”

Charles pauses, glancing over fondly at where you stand with Matteo, straightening your son’s helmet and race suit.

“His mother and I, we’ve worried and experienced every up and down along the way with him. But Matteo has worked so hard for this, never gave up even when it seemed impossible. He more than deserves today.”

The reporter smiles. “And his last name isn’t the only way he takes after you. Matteo is widely considered your protégé after you mentored him through the junior ranks.”

“I taught him everything I could,” Charles acknowledges. “But his talent and dedication are all his own. Matteo is his own man now. I can’t wait to see how high he continues to climb.”

“Any advice you’ve given him before his first race with Ferrari?”

Charles chuckles. “Just to enjoy every second. This only comes around once.” He looks off into the distance, eyes crinkling nostalgically.

“Still seems like yesterday I was in his shoes for my own Ferrari debut. I’ll never forget that feeling.”

The reporter wraps up the interview and Charles makes his way over to where you and 21-year-old Matteo are embracing. Charles’ eyes shine with unshed tears as he clasps arms with his son.

“I’m so proud of you,” Charles says hoarsely. “Your mother and I both. Now go show the world what you can do.”

Matteo’s answering smile is blinding. “I’ll make you proud, Papa.”

He hugs you tight, then pulls on his helmet and strides confidently to his waiting Ferrari. The mechanics cheer as the car roars to life and Matteo peels out onto the track, on the cusp of achieving his lifelong dream.

You cling to Charles’ side, waving tearfully. “Our little boy,” you whisper in awe.

Charles wraps an arm around you, never taking his eyes off the bright red car. “He’s all grown up. But he’ll always be our son.”

No matter how high Matteo climbs, Charles knows he will always remain his sweet little boy — the bright-eyed child you and Charles raised with love.

His greatest source of pride and joy as the future beckons brightly, another generation of Leclercs carrying the hopes of Ferrari forward.

[arkangelo-7]

Okay, but, BatAdvil.

At this point in his career, Bruce has developed more synthetic drugs than a Pfizer employee without health insurance—it just comes with the territory. Given his close proximity to the Rouge Gallery and Gotham’s semi-poisonous smog, he’s had to teach himself the art of medicinal drugs. There’s an entire fridge dedicated to his creations, but his magnum opus will always be BatAdvil.

Bruce designed it following a particularly godawful run-in with Killer Croc back in 2005, but it was Dick Grayson who actually coined the term. Alfred was suspicious but ever since BatAdvil’s creation, Bruce has kept a tiny bottle of it on him at all times; any time the Joker or Poison Ivy gets a particularly nasty hit in, he’ll pop a pill and suddenly he’s 25 years old again and pain’s only a distant memory.

Eventually, though, the Robins get their hands on it.

Dick routinely steals Bruce’s horde. It’s because he’s so generous with it; anytime he’s in a team up and his partner gets whacked around by one of Blüdhaven’s worst, Dick, guilty, offers up the pills to both superpowered and pedestrian hero’s alike. It’d made him extremely popular with the Justice League—there’s regular fights over who gets to assist Nightwing in hopes of getting their hands on some free BatAdvil.

Jason, once he’s adopted and learns the Secert, immediately sees the potential of dealing BatAdvil. He starts with the Titans, because their proximity to Dick means they’re already hooked, and goes on to dominate the Justice League as the leading BatAdvil dealer. He makes a killing off that stuff and keeps his cash stash locked away in a random chimney in Wayne Manor.

Tim knows about it. Tim knows everything, actually, but he’s acutely aware of Bruce’s miracle pills and Jason’s dealings with the JL. Once Jason’s dead, Tim not only takes over the Robin mantle, but also Jason’s superhero drug ring. He runs it so efficiently that when Jason comes back, he half considers hiring Tim for his criminal enterprises before he decides that trying to kill him would he more rewarding.

Side note: Tim 100% uses the chemical composition of BatAdvil to make a pain-relieving energy drink. It works great, but the problem is that it’s shit on his liver, so he has to go back to regular coffee after a few weeks to avoid losing another internal organ.

Damian and Steph are similar in that they both at first think BatAdvil is stupid. They stick to regular Advil or just go to hard drugs for when they’re seriously injured. But then they both have a scenario where they have some sort of project or test the next morning and have to study, but also just broke like three ribs fighting the Riddler two hours before. They take BatAdvil once and never go back.

Bruce, to this day, uses the stuff religiously. Like, on a daily basis. (He’s got eight kids, he’s forty-five, and he’s beating up criminals on the regular. It’s tough on his knees.) But like regular Advil, the more BatAdvil one takes, the more their immunity grows and the larger their dose has to be. Bruce accidentally gives Clark one of his every-day pills BatAdvils after he gets whacked during an alien invasion and Clark immediately passes out. The League freaks out and Batman awkwardly disappears and pretends like it wasn’t his fault. Dick cries tears of laughter when he hears.

[uselesseaweedbrain]

Supercorptober - 18. CatCo

“I had the strangest dream,” Lena remarks, lightly, from her seat on the creamy beige couch of her living-room. “You were flying, and you were carrying me.”

“I- I- was?”, Kara stutters, and James, seated next to Lena, chuckles a little.

Lena is still rubbing her head, surely from the aftermath of the poison, and Kara’s heart squeezes painfully in her chest.

Lena almost died.

In front of her.

Again.

It’s lucky Kara is Supergirl.

Lucky Lena has Kara as a friend.

Lucky Alex is so competent at her job.

Lucky Lena’s ‘quarterly assassination attempts’, as she jokingly calls them, have never succeeded.

For now.

How long can a lucky streak last?

And what about when it doesn’t?

Kara blanches at the thought, fidgets with her glasses anxiously as she stares at the ground, willing herself to move, to make a choice, to do something.

"James, can we- can you give us a moment?"

James nods his assent, squeezing Kara's shoulder in support as he exits the room and closes the door behind him.

"Kara, did I say something wrong?"

"No, you- I just- I thought I would have more time."

Kara chuckles nervously, pushes her glasses up her nose once more.

"Are you okay? What's happening? Are you sick?"

Lena has stood up from her spot on the couch, closing the space between them, and Kara can't think, her mouth scrambling to find words that were just on the tip of her tongue moments ago.

"I- I'm fine, Lena, it's just- I need to tell you something."

“Kara, you know you can tell me anything, right?"

Kara swallows the anxious bile rising from her stomach, and smiles. 

Judging from Lena's worried frown, it must be closer to a scowl.

"Lena, what you said- what if it wasn't a dream?"

It's Lena's turn to laugh nervously. 

"Do you mean the part where I was in your arms, or the part where we were flying?"

"Both", Kara answers, quietly, her gaze downcast.

"Kara, wh- what are you trying to tell me? I don't understand. Humans can't fly."

"No, they can't, but I'm- I'm not-"

Kara's tongue feels like lead, the weight of her family's safety, and of all of their fears, and hers, immobilising it like an anchor.

"I'm not-", she tries again.

"Human?" Lena supplies, gently, without judgement, but without too much surprise, either. 

"Yes", Kara breathes. "I'm not human.”

“Oh”, Lena lets out.

Kara is biting her lip, worrying it between her teeth, wringing her hands together as she stares at Lena’s immaculate flooring, intensely enough that she might activate her heat vision.

“May I?”, Lena questions, and Kara’s eyes snap up to Lena’s extended hand.

Her glasses. She’s going for her glasses.

Kara nods, air refuses to enter her lungs, and her whole body starts to tremble - it’s not noticeable by a human, her body’s vibration frequency too high for the acuteness of human eyes.

Lena is gentle, so gentle, and Kara wishes she wouldn’t be - wishes she would rage and get mad or suspicious - because never has a reveal gone like this, never has it ever been so intimate and vulnerable and dangerous, never has anyone held so much of Kara at the tip of their fingers.

Lena removes the glasses, and grazes Kara’s cheek, and Kara closes her eyes, reflexively. 

“Kara”, Lena whispers, as if aware of the fragility of the moment. She’s close, so close, her breath warm against Kara’s lips. “May I kiss you?”, Lena’s voice asks.

Something clenches in Kara’s chest. “Yes!”, she wants to yell. “Please.”

But what Kara lets out instead is “James?”

Lena chuckles, and takes a step back, shaking her head fondly. “We’re not together, darling. We’ve become excellent friends, but that is all there is to it. Actually, he- we- um- kind of pretended to date, because he knew how I felt about you?”

Kara blushes - and the something in her chest unclenches, slightly. 

“How you felt about me?”

And Lena’s gaze is on Kara again, smouldering, an unanswered question in her emerald eyes.

Kara closes the gap this time, moulding their lips together - it takes Lena a moment to reciprocate, but when she does- 

Kara’s vibrating again, exhilaration filling her up to the brim as Lena’s tongue slips into her mouth, and Lena’s hands snake around her waist, pulling her closer, and Lena’s fingers find their way to her hair, scratching her scalp-

Kara feels light, so light that it feels like flying-

Until Lena pulls away slightly, still in her arms and out of breath, and-

“Kara?”

“Um?”

“Maybe we can come down, now?”

[gingermintpepper]

So, one of the most interesting things that's come from my recent exercises in writing the Olympians as young deities is all of the very fun and somewhat painful conversations that come from the young deities acquiring and consequently settling into their domains.

Apollo and Artemis especially have been really fascinating under the microscope. They start off identically, with extremely similar interests and similar domains over the hunt and wilderness. They spend their days under the stars and foraging for fruit and dancing and singing in the fields, two rustic god-children exploring and learning together. Then Apollo goes off on his own to slay Python.

Now, a lot of things change when Apollo kills Python. That is the act which transforms the bow from a tool of survival and sport to an instrument of murder, bloodshed and ultimately war. It is Apollo's first act of wrath which separates him from Artemis - both spiritually because she has not yet shed blood herself as a goddess and physically because it leads to his exile. Most importantly however, the slaying of Python is the act that grants Apollo his knowledge.

If violence is what first separates Apollo from Artemis then it is knowledge which keeps them apart.

This can refer to a lot of things; that Artemis continued to be at home with the wild beasts of the forests and mountains while Apollo grew to prefer the domesticated sheep and cattle, that Artemis continued to avoid mortals while Apollo grew to know their ways and endeavoured to teach them more. The point that has been the most interesting to me however has been Artemis, who remains free of slaughter, and thus remains pure and Apollo, who becomes acutely and entirely too aware of it, and thus must be constantly purified.

Apollo's infatuation with medicine specifically is the place where this becomes most apparent. When he leaves for his exile to travel as a mortal, without nectar or ambrosia, without power, Apollo is without the privileges of the divine for the very first time. He sweats, he smells, he grows weary when he travels, he grows hungry and thirsty. He experiences fatigue and nausea, the fever of sickness, the chill of infection, the delirium of poison. The blood Apollo shed does not only make him impure spiritually, it strips him of the purity of his birth and station. Likewise, medicine is not a divine practice. What use do the unkillable immortals have for something as finicky as medicine when they have nectar and ambrosia? Apollo however, knows of the pains of the flesh and the suffering of the mortal coil. He pursues medicine in all its horrors and difficulties because of the knowledge he gained with blood.

Artemis then, cannot understand the medical Apollo. When her brother returns possessed by this spectre of ill-gained knowledge, she does not recognise him. Who is this boy who scores the deer and studies the shape of their intestines before he cooks them? What good is there in rescuing a chick with a broken wing? The Apollo-of-the-Wild in her memories would have done the correct thing and left the thing for dead - let the forest take what is its due. Who is this Apollo whose hands are always stained to the wrist in the blood and gore of the living? What is his fascination with the mechanics of mortal bodies? Artemis does not know and Apollo does not tell her.

That has, by far, been my favourite effect of the whole Python watershed moment to explore recently.

[marisatomay]

[guy who’s never been north of the 60th parallel and also exists in a time of satellite gps] what if we find ourselves lost in the arctic for years and descend into madness from the isolation and also from acute lead poisoning and some occurrences on the more supernatural side and we all die

[robin-evry]

oooooohhhhhh i love the idea of a yuu based on athanasia de alger obelia from who made me a princess or maybe roxana agriche from way to protect the female lead's older brother or keira parvis from actually I was the real one or even Penelope eckart from death is the only ending for a villainess

Since I can't pick which one, I'm gonna do all of them. I'm actually not a big manhwa reader. As well if you notice I've been slowing down. It's because I'm busy or tired from work.

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐖𝐀!𝐘𝐔𝐔

( English is not my first language )

Day 7 : manhwa!yuu

𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐀!𝐘𝐔𝐔 👸🌼

Athanasia de Alger Obelia is the main protagonist in Who Made Me a Princess, and the current Crown Princess of the Obelian Empire. After reading a romance fantasy novel named The Lovely Princess, the protagonist goes to sleep and finds herself reincarnated into the infant body of Athanasia

the princess of NRC, poise and elegant. Many students wonder why they are in NRC, when they should be in RSA. Headmaster umbrigde of RSA offered them a scholarship on RSA. but was rejected by them because they don't want to leave their friends.

Vil favorite. Usually make examples out of them saying to epel that he should act more like them. Epel originally don't like them thinking they are just similar to vil or are annoyed by constant comparison.

One of NRC prodigies, similar to riddle, Azul and malleus. Even tho Athanasia!yuu is known to be a kind person

𝐑𝐎𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🦋🌹

Roxana Agreece is the Protagonist of the Roxana series. She is the daughter of Lante Agreece and Sierra Agreece, and the biological younger sister of Achille Agreece.

The serpent of NRC, Roxanne would be very observant, strategic as well,very calculating. Able to manipulate situations into their favor.

They might appear charming and polite on the surface but always have a hidden agenda. They can easily influence or secretly guide people's decisions to their benefit. Some students manage to recognize their intentions like riddle, Azul and Leona.

Roxanne!Yuu have the ability to control or create poisonous butterflies that are created by their own blood, these butterflies can work as eyes and ears for them, these butterflies can devour anything as well to cast illusion.

𝐊𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🗡️🪻

Strong and resilient, kiera!yuu are an independent student. They are very sharp and observant able to pick up on subtle cues and hidden motives,They wouldn’t take anyone’s words at face value and would often find themselves questioning the intentions of others, particularly the dorm leaders and those in positions of power.

Kiera!Yuu might not be immediately outgoing, they would be fierce when standing up for themselves and their beliefs. They would quietly but determinedly pursue their goals, unwilling to back down once they’ve set their sights on something. deep down Kiera!yuu have a soft spot over the people they care.

Even tho not being skilled at the art of magic, Kiera!yuu is very athletic and Mobile they are very strong in managing to suppress many students using their skill, as well as master swordsmanship they are able to head on head with some powerful students like Lilia in martial arts.

𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄!𝐘𝐔𝐔 🌹🌺

Penelope Eckhart was the original villainess of the otome game Daughter of the Duke - Love Project! in Normal Mode and the heroine in Hard Mode.She was the adopted daughter of Duke Eckhart, her role being to replace the Duke's original daughter, Ivonne Eckhart. She had a bad relationship with her family and was relentlessly abused by the servants which caused her to have a bad personality that earned her a bad reputation. She died in all of the original routes of the game in Normal Mode.

Penelope!yuu would approach relationships in Night Raven College with extreme caution would be thinking several steps ahead in every interaction.they’d be acutely aware of how fragile their position is and would work to secure their place in the school while avoiding conflict where possible.

Though they may come off as cold or indifferent at first, they are driven by the need to survive and avoid the metaphorical "bad ending." Yet, like Penelope, they harbor a secret desire for genuine care and understanding from others, even if they struggle to show vulnerability.

Similar to kierra yuu, Penelope!yuu would be sharp, immediately finding a solution over any situation, as well as a very skilled swordmaster. Have very quick and swift attacks before the enemy.

[quaranmine]

it is kind of crazy to me that we live in such a polarized, absurdly nationalistic, patriotic country and yet when evidence that nearly 50% of bald eagles, our national bird and icon of America, suffer from chronic lead poisoning and one third from acute lead poisoning there is not some massive outcry to fix this instantly. people are just like nooooooo but i wanna keep using lead fishing weights :((((( and the NRA is like over my dead body will you take our lead ammunition

like obviously this affects other types of animals too but i would've thought that the bald eagle would be THE charismatic species for the USA to take action on behalf of but. nope

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

🤔🏥Are Gallifreyans allergic to anything?

You'd think a species as sophisticated as Gallifreyans would be impervious to something as mundane as allergies, right? Wrong. Despite their impressive biology, Gallifreyans have a few surprising weaknesses.

🧪 Praxis Gases: A Breath of Trouble

Praxis gases, often used in chemical warfare, badly affect some Gallifreyans. These gases trigger a reaction akin to acute hypersensitivity pneumonitis, a fancy term for 'unhappy lungs.'

Mild Exposure: Imagine hay fever, but with extra sneezing, coughing, and dizziness. Unpleasant but manageable.

Moderate Exposure: At this point, things escalate. Fever, vomiting, and confusion set in, making it harder for the Gallifreyan to function.

Severe Exposure: Direct contact is pretty lethal—bloody sputum, respiratory failure, and coma are all possible. Without immediate treatment, death is imminent.

Treatment: Atropine and corticosteroids, paired with supplementary oxygen, are the go-to remedies. If you don't happen to have any of those to hand, everyday foods like apples and tea (thanks to quercetin) can also help.

💊 Aspirin: The Bitter Pill

Aspirin might be your friendly over-the-counter headache remedy, but for some Gallifreyans, it's the pill of death. Even touching the filthy stuff can possibly trigger a catastrophic chain reaction. Their immune system freaks out, causing severe anaphylaxis and leading to embolisms (clots in the lungs, hearts, or brain).

Symptoms:

Difficulty breathing, vomiting, and swelling (within minutes).

A dangerous plunge in blood pressure, followed by strokes or cardiac arrest.

If untreated, death occurs swiftly as internal clots block blood flow entirely.

Treatment: Gallifreyans need adrenaline, oxygen, and fluids ASAP. Interestingly, chocolate (yes, really) can counteract the early stages of aspirin poisoning.

Gallifreyan Biology for Tuesday by GIL

Any purple text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →😆Jokes |��Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired😴

[x-blue-spring-x]

If requested are still available - nanami who has a crush on you but you're with auguri 👉👈

Hi bestie!

Love this idea, not sure who you’re referring to as boyfriend so we’ve made him just some guy, that Kento can’t stand lmao.

Kento watches the light play across the glazed windows of the small soba restaurant he’s sitting in, half a bowl of noodles and an empty cup of water sat before him. You’d texted to say you were running late, but that was nearly forty minutes ago and tired of waiting with his stomach rumbling, he’d caved and ordered something to fill the void.

Frankly anything at this point to kill time would be accepted, whatever it takes to distract his thoughts from returning over and over to the one thing he can’t hold in his broad palms.

You.

Kento doesn’t consider himself highly strung or prone to lovesickness. If anything he’s cool and collected, dominated by logic rather than letting his heart lead. It’s that same sensible outlook that keeps reminding him it’s hopeless, he’s hanging on to something that’s a lost cause. But no matter how many times he tries to rationally dismiss his feelings, they remain omnipresent, an ever changing pang lodged deep in his mind which fans the flames of sweet longing.

Frequently his inner eye wanders to you, the way you look when you smile at him from the corner of your eyes, the sound of your laugh echoing in the corners of his apartment as he tries to catch a few moments peace. You brushed his hand incidentally late one evening, discussing plans for a new method of exorcism based on the combination of your cursed techniques, and Kento felt a sense of calm unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

It was so natural for you to touch him, utterly perfect like the pieces of a moving puzzle slotting neatly into place. You’d been sat close to his broad shoulder, the smell of your perfume impressed on the cuffs of his shirt. Kento still hasn’t washed it clean and he knows that’s strange. He just can’t bear to remove the memory of that moment, the vision of your face alight with excitement as you told him your ideas.

Partners of a kind, workmates even though Kento would rather be far more than that. You shouldn’t mix business with pleasure, he knows this and yet still it becomes harder and harder to conceal just how much you mean to him. Each interaction with you is treasured, savoured like a delicious meal, though he always ends up hollow and alone when you go back to him.

Him. Your boyfriend.

A man thoroughly unworthy of the gift you represent to the world. The one that makes you come into work with red eyes and distraction evident in your face because you’ve been fighting with him. Kento can’t think what there would be to disagree on with you, anything you asked of him he would give, but then again perhaps this boyfriend isn’t up to the task.

Kento holds others to a high standard, that’s how he knows you’re the real deal. No one else could ever or would ever capture his attention in the way that you have. Occasionally he becomes sloppy, going above and beyond to keep you safe during missions or letting himself find opportunities to speak with you, though there’s nothing that pressing to discuss.

He nauseates himself with it, this stupid adolescent style crush. However you deserve so much more than your boyfriend could ever give you. Kento knows if he ever was lucky enough to hold you, kiss you or even have you in his bed for a night, it would be impossible to go back to a life without the feeling of your body next to his. You’re a curse all of your own, an acute poison there is no antidote for.

Kento checks his phone, there’s a message from you apologising. Explaining that somethings come up and you’re skipping dinner. It has an argument with your boyfriend written all over it, between the lines of your polite little text. Kento clenches his fist so hard the plastic of his mobile pops, the screens backlight fluttering as if butterflies have sprung into life across it.

“Get ahold of yourself.” He murmurs under his breath, dropping cash on the table for the noodles and heading home without looking back. Easier said than done, it’s been months of this and every time you choose that man over him it’s back to square one.

Once inside his warm apartment, Kento heads to the shower, like the water will cleanse him of the unprofessional thoughts coursing through his bloodstream, making his pulse pound in ears and his cock twitch in his slacks. Your body so pliant against his, a tie binding your wrists carefully so you can’t escape the flicks of his tongue against your pretty clit. He’d tease you, build your desire into something life changing, so when you came you’d never want any other man. Kento’s never seen you naked, but he knows the sight would be burned onto his retinas in only the way seeing a goddess in the flesh has the power to do.

Kento rests his head against the cool shower tiles, breathing hard, trying to stay anchored in reality and not drowned in the image of your body riding his.

Abandoned somewhere on a counter, his phone glows.

Two missed calls from you.

I wanna snuggle him omg 🥲

[kateshistoryspot]

The Terror: The Show, The History, The New Findings

On March 25th, 2018, AMC premiered the show "The Terror" to captivated audiences. The first season of the show follows the crew of The HMS Erebus and HMS Terror: two exploring ships hoping to find the Northwest Passage. Following the plot of Dan Simmon's 2007 novel of the same name, the crew falls victim to supernatural happenings, as well as the naturally occurring ones happening both inside and outside of the ship. Yet, who were the men of the Franklin Expedition, and what do we know now?

The Franklin Expedition was a Victorian exploration party, named for one of the captains, Sir John Franklin. Setting out from England, they stopped by Greenland and then headed north past Baffin Island, looking for King William Land. Other than Franklin, the two other captains were Francis Crozier of Terror and James Fitzjames of Erebus. These two men were put in charge upon the death of Sir John in 1848. However, such was for naught, as the expedition party disappeared without a trace, along with their ships.

For years, all that remained of the Franklin Expedition were papers, tin cans, three mummified corpses (none of which were the captains), and the testimony of the Inuit. Terrifying stories were recounted of a party finding a massive corpse with teeth like a rat's (although the testimony has been questioned by historians and buffs alike).

Interest in the ill fated ship failed to waiver: search parties were turning up, looking for survivors. Stories of a lone survivor, named Aglooka, were passed down. Yet, it wouldn't be for another hundred some-odd years that further evidence would be found, and the pieces would come into place.

In 1981, the FEFAP project was launched by Owen Beattie, who was at the time a professor of anthropology at the University of Alberta. They planned to walk the western coast of King William Land in hopes of finding evidence of what happened. Artifacts were located, as well as desiccated human remains that not only showed signs of scurvy, but of cannibalism. Cut marks were found on bone fragments on the site, as well as suggestive signs of decapitation.

Testing discovered something else that was shocking: many of the bones found had very high levels of lead in them, suggesting that a number of the men had suffered from acute lead poisoning.

In 1982, Beattie returned with a number of students to walk the path again, and this time found the "Boat Place," along with the remains of 6-14 men, and a boot sole with cleats.

Due to the concerns of lead poisoning, the remains of the three men buried at Beechy island were exhumed and tested, all of which showed high levels of lead. Beattie believed this was due to the canned goods brought on the ship, which were improperly soldered shut, and allowed for lead to leech into the food, as well as spoilage.

In 1992, ten years after the second expedition, Barry Ranford, a Franklin scholar, discovered human remains near the boat place. 400 bones and fragments, clay pipes, buttons, etc. were found. Like the remains found before, these bones also showed signs of cannibalism, except these had suffered a phenomena called "pot polishing," where the ends of the bones rub against the pot while cooking. There were also signs of end-stage cannibalism: that the survivors were breaking open bones in hopes of finding the marrow within.

For the next twenty years, minor artifacts would be found, but no leads. It wouldn't be until 2014 that Erebus would be found, at the bottom of Queen Maud Gulf. Sonar showed the condition of the ship, which was quite good, yet quickly deteriorated. The UK claimed the first 65 artifacts brought up from the ship, while the ship itself is joint owned by the country of Canada and the Inuit.

Two years after the wreck of Erebus was found, Terror would be found as well. Found in the aptly named "Terror Bay" in 2016, it was declared to be in "pristine" condition, and videos were taken of it from a ROV.

In 2021, the body of John Gregory was identified, after nearly 200 years of mystery. Although found in 1859, the body wasn't identifiable due to the wear and tear it had been through. With the help of DNA from his great-great-great grandson and namesake, Johnathon Gregory, the bones were identified.

Yet, the most recent discovery was a mere few days ago: James Fitzjames, the third in command and captain of Erebus, was identified. First found in 1861, the remains were found near a boat, where the Inuit had described cannibalism having taken place. All that was left of him was a mandible, which was DNA tested in 2024 and confirmed to be him. It was also confirmed that Fitzjames corpse had been consumed by survivors.

SPOILERS AHEAD FOR AMC'S THE TERROR SEASON 1

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In the show, the crew's demise is caused by a combination of the elements, lead poisoning, and attacks from the demon polar bear Tuunbaq, a creature based off of the Inuit mythological creature Tupilaq, which is a creature of divine vengeance. The Tuunbaq hunts the crew during their time on the ice, tundra, and even in the wasteland, eating their souls and corpses. It is Doctor Goodsir, the favorite of many show watchers, who takes it down: by poisoning himself while in the cannibal encampment, which poisons the cannibals, who are eaten by the Tuunbaq, who dies. It is Crozier in this version who is the lone survivor, and who is named as Aglooka.

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End of Terror Spoilers

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In real life, the crews only dealt with the harsh environment that they were traversing, alongside starvation. There is contention about the lead poisoning hypothesis, and although I believe it, other historians do not. We do not know who the last man standing was, and we do not know the timeline that accompanies the deaths. All we know was that there was starvation, and mass demise.

I loved Terror Season 1: the sets and designs were historically accurate, and the show handled portraying the Inuit better than the book did. Jared Harris is becoming one of my favorite actors, because of how many period dramas he's in, and how amazing an actor he is. He nailed the character of Crozier, portraying him sympathetically. Ciaran Hinds was spectacular as always (he never has a bad role), and it was wonderful to see Tobias Menzies outside of Game of Thrones (I haven't watched much Outlander, but it's on the list). I would definitely recommend this show, definitely for Halloween, and definitely for the period buff itching to watch something scary and mid-Victorian.

[jurdanhell]

Okay so basically, I was re reading the chapter where Cardan asks Jude “and is it out of your system?” And Jude’s like “oh yea yea totally” sis, we all know that’s LIES 😂. I was just trying to imagine an alternate scene thinking.. what if she says no? Idk about anyone else but I think it would lead to basically chapter 15 part 2 so I was wondering if you could write a filthy something something 😂🥴 (like I mentioned before, no pressure)

I Will Know Nothing (Until I Know You)

Read it on AO3!

Word Count: 1,432

Rating: Mature

“And is it?" He asks. "Out of your system?”

I think of the blusher mushroom, the deathsweet, the wraithberry running through my veins with equal measure ferocity and instinct. We are alike in this way.

“No,” I say, because the indulgence of poison is one that I know greater than anything else.

I am unlearned at love and its making, but no matter how obvious that is to him, he does not let it show. Not when he guides my hands so carefully over him. Not when he redirects my nails to claw again at his back as he brings his mouth to the tender space just behind my ear. I suck my lip between the sharpest edges of my teeth, against the sound that rumbles in the back of my throat, because what this really is is a secret, and the more he knows is all the more he can use against me. I bite down on my lip hard enough to bleed. 

The familiar sickness of poison roils through my gut, twinged with something else. A layer of sweat sheens over my skin and I am dizzy from the blood that rushes to my cheeks, my head, no doubt as diseased as what I’d ingested only earlier today. As infected as myself. 

I tip my head back, again reminded of the things we’d done in that secret room behind the throne, and all the things we hadn’t. He brings his mouth to the hollow of my throat, pushing me back into the office in the Court of Shadows that I’ve taken as my own. He pauses only to push the door closed. 

The dizzying absence from his hands on my skin leaves as quickly as it arrives, as though it was aware of how soon it would be replaced with another, equally intoxicating feeling. 

Since my time in Faerie, I have grown very good at pretending. Pretending that my muscles do not sing from the acute pain from the swinging of my sword, pretending that it didn’t hurt every time I’d been made an example of being something lesser. Pretending that I do not feel as I do, hiding even from myself. I am not sure I keep the longing off my face, but with his hands drifting down the tie of my breeches, nose deep in the crook of my neck, I am not sure it matters. 

Perhaps desire is like mithridatism, where I should be taking doses slowly, accumulating my body to the poison until it affects me no longer. Perhaps my overindulgence here will kill me as surely as any sharp blade. 

It isn’t until he sinks down onto his knees, pushing the backs of my legs to the edge of the desk, mouth drifting across my navel that I decide that I do not care. 

Religion in Faerie is scarcely discussed, brought up only with the slandering of poor fates and cursed as surely as any gambling man might blame the hand. There might have been gods, once, but anything infinite in an immortal mind is just as easily forgotten. But he slides my breeches down to my knees with such piety, pushing my legs apart with such reverence that I’m sure one of us has found it. 

Something flutters in my chest as he brings his mouth to my center, looking up at me through his dark lashes. Not as though I ought to be the one praying, but as though this is the prayer. As though any noise I might make would make for choir, would carry the cadence of a hymn. He looks at me as though he means to memorize it, this moment. The shape of my very skin. 

His hands move methodically against me, into me. There is strategy here yet, and I refuse to concede. I will not concede. 

This time, I do not let my hands shake.

I bring one hand to his hair and knot my fingers so deeply I am not sure they will ever be free. I am not sure I want them to be. His tongue brushes flat against me, but it is the heat of his breath against my bare thigh that is my undoing. He moans my name against my skin, whispering dirty things I'm certain he would not say if his goal wasn't to make me give in. I will not give in. 

I lean back against the desk, putting my weight on my elbow. I’m half-aware of something being knocked to the floor when he sinks lower to bring one of my legs over his shoulder. 

There is an awful kind of pleasure in being granted what you’ve so desperately wanted, even if you’ve convinced yourself you didn’t. It seems we are both good at making terrible decisions. 

This deep underground, it is too dark for plants to grow. There are no windows to allow moonlight to skim in, pooling like milk against the scarce furniture that was undoubtedly stolen for the home of thieves. That does not stop vines from snaking their way up the walls, cloying around any surface they can find purchase on. Surely, deep down in their making, they must know they were doomed to die the moment they sprouted. There is nothing for them here. No light, no water. No chance for survival. 

That is what I tell myself as Cardan’s other hand slips beneath my shirt to palm at my breast. That is what I tell myself as I let him. There is no chance for survival. There is no way I would have survived this, anyway. 

Maybe I can still take him down with me. 

His finery is disarranged as I pull against his hair, beckoning him to his feet as I yank him roughly overtop of me, laying myself flat against the desk, my hair spilling over the edge. He looks dissatisfied, as though he were a cat whose cream I’d just stolen for no other reason than to be cruel.

I am, I know. But not for this. 

His lips are swollen when I bring them roughly to my own, tasting myself from his mouth. It is a stupor that fills my lungs, my brain, working its way into my blood that controls me. My volition is not my own. I do not think it has been for a long while. 

My hands go to his breeches, toying with the lace in the front, but not untying it. I do not know much, enough that he is aware of, but not so little that I am completely unknowledgeable. I refuse to think of the way he looked up to me, his mouth against the softest parts of my skin, drawing sensitive shapes with his teeth, his tongue. 

A flower I do not recognize springs from the ivy that unfolds above us, a deep blue that might have been purple in the sun, trumpeting from its stem on the vine. Its yellow-white center does not shy away from the darkness of the room around us. 

I move my hands to undo the buttons of his shirt with as much slowness as I can manage with his mouth working delicious cruelties over a soft spot on my neck. 

The room is overcome with blooming buds in the darkness. One of my hands drifts over a knot of scars at his back, and I realize that it is not despite the darkness that they crest so fully, so openly, that it is in spite of it. That, maybe there is a kind of bravery in being so honest. In knowing the risks of a poison, and taking the plunge anyway. 

He pushes himself against me in a way that is somehow more intimate than when we were both bare. It is not unlike when the clouds part from a silvered sky, letting the moonlight drink in the land, the faelights crashing up into the stars and melding into the air. Somehow, the unbrokenness of this moment is what is visceral, is so guarded by its profoundness that it will know nothing else. I am certain that when I open my eyes, I will see stars.

I am filled with a hatred so hot it warms me from the inside out, so bright that I might never truly be cold. 

I hate that he is the one that makes me feel this way, and that the statement alone is as much honesty I can bare, even to myself. I am a coward. 

My thoughts are splintering under the guiding action of his fingers, and I realize his clever poison is not simply along the sweat of his skin or tucked in between stolen kisses. It is in his words, his breath, and it is in me, too. And now, I am not sure I will ever be able to escape it.

Masterlist

i don't think i've ever written a first-person tfota fic. anyway i have absolutely nothing to say for myself. enjoy, sluts and whores <3

Tag List:

@cutekawaiihentaiboobies @cardan-greenbriar-tcp @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @whoviantalibah @snusbandxknifewife @goddess-of-writing @storiesandschemes @thesirenwashere @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @andromeddea @clockworkgraystairs @hizqueen4life @highqueenjudeduarte @the-chick-of-the-air @dorkzrul @sassylunars @justabunchoffandoms @queenofgreenbriar @fandomfanatic987 @df3ndyr @brittneyal @woodsbeyond1 @clouds-and-peonies @mis-lil-red @firestarsandseneschals @b00kworm @bisexual-bibliophile @greenbumblebee @danaanruhn @acciomanorian @ireallyshouldsleeprn @vanessa172003 @janeslandrys @potterpasties @nahthanks @ahdiejajdjsiaksudjjssj @queen-of-demons-and-hell @thefolkofthefic @myunfortunatenightmare @reneereadsstuff @lordoftermites @figonas @aftg-tcp-soc4402 @dumble-daddy @greenbriarxrose @shadowhuntingdemigod @pollyaunt @kittkatandbooboo @savagelysarcasticsilence @romantic-loverr @teenyweenynightghost @bookcide

[pojkflata]

"We will celebrate Donald Trump's death as distastefully as possible" y'all can't even handle celebration of a mass murderer's acute lead poisoning

[peglarpapers]

i love how we all forget that goodsir brings the desiccated corpse of the monkey he killed with acute lead poisoning on the death march so that he can talk to it. for no reason

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Chemical Safety: Beryllium

One element/material that is common enough to have specific safety and training requirements in some organizations is beryllium. Beryllium is classified as both a respiratory hazard and a possible carcinogen. Care must be taken when working with the element to prevent beryllium dust contamination and accumulation, including PPE to prevent it from settling on individuals and leaving the lab with them. Some organizations include medical surveillance requirements on workers who use beryllium. Long term or high exposure can lead to berylliosis or chronic beryllium disease, an occupational lung disease with no cure, and distinct from acute beryllium poisoning.

Sources/Further Reading: (Images source - University of Michigan) (Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory) (OSHA)

[scotianostra]

9th July 1946 saw the birth in Kirriemuir of Bon Scott.

Born Ronald Belford Scott, his family emigrated from Scotland to Australia in 1952 when he was six.

Scott attended North Fremantle Primary School and John Curtin College of the Arts until he dropped out at the age of fifteen. It was while in high school that he was given the nickname “Bon”.

Bon had a difficult youth full of neglect, crime and abuse. After spending a few months in juvenile institutions for a number of minor offences including theft and "unlawful carnal knowledge", make of that what you may lol, he even tried to escape from Fremantle Prison. He gained interest in music after working a few odd jobs on his release.

He started his first band, The Spektors, in 1966 and served as their drummer while sharing occasional lead vocals. It wasn’t, however, until in 1974 when he gained widespread recognition as the frontman of the hard rock band AC/DC, after replacing their lead singer Dave Evans. He recorded six albums with the band and became a worldwide celebrity with 1979’s Highway to Hell. Bon shared the writing credits of the title song with Malcolm and Angus Young. The album was AC/DC’s first album to peak inside the US charts.

Bon, unfortunately, was not a part of the grand success of the band’s next album, Back in Black. He was drinking heavily at a night club in London and died of acute alcohol poisoning on 19 February, 1980 inside a friend’s car. There have been a number of conspiracy theories involving Bon’s death, but none absolutely proven. Back in Black would go on to be their biggest-selling album with Brian Johnson as the new vocalist.

When AC/DC was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2003, Bon’s family members attended the ceremony in his place. He was cremated, and his ashes are buried in the Fremantle Cemetery in Fremantle, Western Australia.

Bon Scott was rated as number one in Classic Rock’s July 2004 list of the “100 Greatest Frontmen Of All Time”. He was ranked fifth on Hit Parader’s 2006 compilation of the 100 Greatest Heavy Metal Vocalists of all time.

His bronze statue was unveiled in 2008 at Fremantle Fishing Boat Harbour in Western Australia. A statue of the AC/DC singer was unveiled at the annual Angus, Bonfest festival held in his honour in May 2016

Read more on Bonfest here https://www.bonfest.com/