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see-arcane · 1 year ago

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Cards with the Count

Thinking about how Jonathan is trying to pass the time during Vampire Hell Staycation with all the books in the library (a guaranteed Dracula Zone), no stationery (bastard), and a finite amount of secret pen ink and secret diary pages left at his disposal (shit). Reading and writing and art are all out. What’s left?

I like to think, in this order:

1) He remembers that he has a pack of playing cards in the general luggage Dracula didn’t snatch. A gift Lucy had bestowed on him and Mina, a pack apiece, as she insisted that it was the best way to pass an hour in dreary company that wasn’t to do with gossip or politics.

2) He doesn’t normally play, if only because he doesn’t have the coin to meet any real gambling stranger at a table. Just a ‘for fun’ thing.

3) Fuck it. Solitaire. Card towers. It’s something to keep his mind off the…everything.

4) He gets exactly one (1) day/evening of peace with this. Then:

5) “Whatever are you up to, my friend?”

(He didn’t even use the door to give Jonathan time to hide the pack. Misted in. No shadow to give him away. Fantastic.) Jonathan staples his smile back in place and rattles off something apologetic, so sorry, was he keeping the Count waiting? Let him just put this away, he wouldn’t be interested—

6) Smash cut to the library. The cards are now unofficially confiscated/a staple of the Dracula Zone, alongside the fancy crystal chessboard the Count loves to crush him with on a semi-regular basis. Jonathan is walking him through the rules of sundry card games. Unsurprisingly, he latches onto the concept of American poker readily. The game is a soup of similar European predecessors that light up his eyes with recognition—primero, poque, brelan—sewn together with England’s game of brag into a medley of the initial rules, both written and unwritten.

7) “A game of skill, then?”

“Skill, acting, and luck.”

Dracula grins as he produces a ransom of gold coins to use as chips. Jonathan deals.

(What are the extra rules here? Does he throw every hand? Does he play in earnest and inevitably lose anyway? Does it even matter? It isn’t chess, after all. Not a proper strategy game. Cards happen. Guesswork happens. A winner and loser every turn. What does it matter?)

8) Jonathan realizes two dozen hands later that what matters is, apparently, his face. One that, likewise apparently, cannot be read by the Count in this game. Out of those two dozen hands, Jonathan has won eighteen. Of those eighteen, his hand was the clear dud for nine. Through it all, Dracula’s eyes keep jumping from his own hand to Jonathan’s tired gaze. When Jonathan wins the twenty-fifth hand and the mountain of gold on his side of the table risks toppling off the edge, Dracula bites out a word Jonathan is sure is too caustic to have a spot in the lost polyglot dictionary.

9) “You have a gift for schooling your face, my friend.” Every word is an icicle; each as sharp as the canines jutting out of the rictus grin.

“I don’t,” Jonathan says.

And it’s true. Now he’s schooling his face—first lesson of anyone destined for the realm of serving others—but in the game, he’s barely thinking of anything else beyond the ticking of the clock. To punctuate this, he slides the heap of gold back to Dracula’s side of the table.

“This is only a game for the fun of it. In a game with stakes, there would be something worth playing and worrying for. When you get to England,” his face is very, very schooled as he says this, “you’ll find a much more varied competition at gambling tables. The players who really train their expressions can do so with fortunes at stake, while novices reveal every victory or loss plainly on their face.”

10) Dracula considers this. And smiles.

11) “Ah, then there must be stakes before we can play the game properly. Still, you have won the bulk of these rounds, my friend—” his hand seems like it wants to be strangling something when it drums atop the gold heap, “—and done me the charity of not taking your rightful winnings.” He throws down his cards. Ace and deuce of spades. “I shall have to speak with the kitchen about producing a stand-in prize.”

He leaves. Jonathan doesn’t blink when he hears the door lock behind him. A card pyramid is erected.

12) Paprika hendl for supper. As excellent as he remembers. Huzzah.

13) The next time he’s herded into the library, he sees what looks suspiciously like his travel paraphernalia flimsily hidden behind a bit of drapery. Dracula is shuffling the deck.

14) “A true prize on the table this time, my friend. I know you are one to appreciate the splendor of our beautiful country, just as I know it is, for your own safety, quite impossible to go exploring alone in the wild. Too many wolves about. But if you win the majority tonight, I shall see to it that my driver takes a leave from his own many errands to escort you beyond the castle for a time, if you so wish.”

“…And if I lose the majority?” He can’t help it: “I’m sure there’s little from me you’d be interested in.”

Dracula grins.

“We shall think of something, I’m certain. Here. Deal.”

15) As expected, Jonathan’s face isn’t effortlessly unreadable in its misery anymore. He has something to play for, even if his trust in Dracula’s dangling carrot on the stick is nigh nonexistent. He loses more. He struggles more. He worries more…

16) …But the wins and losses remain surprisingly even. On into the dawn they play, matching victory for victory. Even the Count seems puzzled. Jonathan is just tired. He was never going to win. The ‘driver’ will fall to some mysterious ailment, his possessions will disappear the moment he’s sent out of the room ahead of the Count. To Hell with it.

17) “I forfeit. We remain tied, so neither has to lose.” A sour smile curls. “Besides, I have kept you up too late again.”

“One more.”

“We can say you won—,”

Dracula gives him a Look.

Jonathan sits again. Plays again.

Wins again.

Dracula hisses several words the polyglot dictionary would be scandalized to translate. Jonathan feels the first genuine smile he’s wanted to make in a month and a half try to creep up on his lips, and stifles it.

18) Dracula turns over his cards and thumbs though the deck as if looking for a conspirator. He even scowls at Jonathan’s forearms, both bare through the whole game as he’d rolled up his sleeves. Still grumbling, his thumbnail finally hooks a card that makes a cloud pass over his face.

19) “What. Is this?”

Jonathan looks.

“Oh, that’s just a Joker.”

“Joker?”

“Yes, I thought I’d taken him out. He’s not a usable card in this game, but he’s sometimes used as a trump or wild card in others. That is, he’s there to turn the tide for whoever gets to play him.”

Jonathan reaches for the card to tuck it back in the box. Dracula pulls it out of reach, walks to the fireplace, and flicks it into the flames.

“Say what you will, but I recognize a symbol of sabotage when I see it. It should not be in the deck at all!” Still watching the little harlequin turn to cinders, he flaps his other hand at Jonathan. “Go rest, my friend. Take that infernal game with you. It is not a respectable pastime for men of our like.”

20) Jonathan gathers up the deck, gives his travel kit a last mournful look, and leaves for his bedroom, knowing not to ask after the walk in the forest as he goes. In his bed, he empties the deck into his hand again and thinks on four things.

Skill.

Acting.

Luck.

And…

21) He turns the deck’s neglected second Joker over in his fingers, the impish face seeming to hold a secret in its grin.

22) When he wakes next, he isn’t surprised to find the deck has been stolen. It doesn’t trouble him. Somehow, it even produces a tired grin on his face. It nearly matches the painted thing hidden, wild and powerful, in the pages of his journal.

#in which time is passed and you should always consider stray cards in the deck #jonathan harker #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily #poker #playing cards #joker #my writing

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mossy-chaos · 3 months ago

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These are all of the codes I could find in the Book of Bill!

The order is decoded message-page-type of cipher

Spoilers under the cut (for those of you who decode yourselves):

Black and white-back of the cover jacket-authors cipher

Even his lies are lies-inside the front cover-theraprism cipher

Praise the fallen angle-first actual page-Cipheric (this is the only time Cipheric is used for some reason)

Olaf was here-same-rune (not sure what this is a reference to)

Remember us-same-Bill's cipher

Let him in and break the seal between what's fiction and what's real-books new master-Bill's cipher

The Axolotl thinks he's won but Ciphers games have just begun-handprint page-color cipher

Irregular-fake covers(very top)-color cipher

The one who writes the codes-about me-Caeser cipher

Glotto/slotheny-Magazine cover(7 new sins)-Bill's cipher (I love the new sins lol)

Not a phase-Stanford pines here(on the goth moth)-Authors cipher-love the jack skellington reference (if thats what that is lol)

Warning/Folding this card may/result in crossovers-the universe is a hollogram-rune (Maybe that's how we finally get an owl house/gravity falls crossover)

My optometrist never saw it coming-What is a human-Theraprism

Paper is book skin/Shave your grandma-Skin-Bill's cipher

Love pain-Bill's tattoo knuckles-Same

Lies-How to trick everyone into loving you-same

Regrowing limbs is Axy's art/but can he regrow a ripped out heart-How to cheat death-Bill's cipher (he must really be mad at the Axolotl)

Eye doctor of a different kind/who wants to make his patient blind-silly straws-caesar

The doctor says/three sips a day/will make the visions/go away-Same

Fussy eater/baby Billy/wouldn't drink/unless it's silly-same (love how this implies that he only drank out of silly straws)

Mason-Embarrassing memories-Bill's cipher (love seeing Dipper's real name again)

Booberry-the meaning of life(popsicle stick)-Bill's cipher

One eyed king-the early years-theraprism

Suck it-The good times(liscense plate)-Caesar

Can warp narrativity/protect fourth walls-Alert from time baby-A1Z26

Lone survivor of the Euclidean massacre-Rune (I wonder what happened during that event and what that event actually is)

Tantrum-Bill's Cipher

Which henchmaniac ratted me out-The shaman-Theraprism (I find this one funny)

Titans blood-the dark ages(Wizards hat)-Rune (Love the owl house reference here)

Suck it Merlin-Never trust a wizard-Rune

Daryll-Cipherstitions(lobster lord of the deep)-Theraprism (love how that's his name)

Curse Wittebane-Witchcraft-Rune

It's all made up-America(the dollar)-Caesar

Countries aren't-Bill's cipher

Rubberhose-Animation-A1Z26

Bill cipher-top secret file-Same

Six fingered freak-Lost in the woods-authors cipher

Stanley would have made her laugh-same (he just rolled better charisma dude)

If lost return to Bill-my muse and me-Theraprism (love how he said this means wise one and also more billford hehe)

Forget the past-A voice from the past page 2-Bill's cipher (this implies that Bill wants Ford to forget Stanley so he won't get in the way)

Hopefully F's gloves will hide what Cipher has done to my hands-I was wrong about everything page 2-Author's Cipher (I love this one <3)

Ouroboros-Wakey wakey here's a snakey (on the snake)-Bill's Cipher (I guess this is the snakes name?)

Miss you-try to forget (on window)-bro's secret code

Have I been too harsh all along?-Should I contact S-Bro's secret code

Hotxolotl-Dimensional authority call transcript (on the sauce packet)-Bill's cipher

I can write codes too it's not that hard!-Dipper's page-Bill's cipher (he do be flexing his intelligence there)

(What a buncha) Love ya bro-Stanley's letter-Bro's secret code (love how this shows that they both still remember the code they made up as kids)

Just fit in (repeated)-SSSSTANNNNLEEEYY-Rune

Holy mackerel-color cipher

AXOLOTLLOTAXOLOTLLOTLAXLOTLAXLOTLAXOLOTLLOTLAXLOTLAXLOTLAXOLOTLLOTLAXLOTLAXLO-Theraprism

Wellwellwellbeing-message from the theraprism-A1Z26

Spheremonger, Eternalor, Bill cipher, The Logicube, Paingorious, Jessica, Shadorg, Mr Silly, The beast-recent inpatient names-Theraprism (the hallucination dog is still creepy lol)

Justice for Scrimbles/Remember Grembley-inside Back cover-Theraprism/Rune (JUSTICE FOR SCRIMBLES!!!!)

Those are all of the codes that are in this book! (Or at least that I could find lol)

#gravity falls #the book of bill #codes #decoding #Bill cipher #Dipper pines #Stanley pines #Stanford pines #book of bill codes #the book of bill spoilers #JUSTICE FOR SCRIMBLES!!!!!!!

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heliads · 1 year ago

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Hey! I love your writing sm

could you pls do an f1 soulmate au with charles x carlos?

maybe whatever a person writes on themselves shows up on their soulmate so they write each other cute 'good luck' notes or jokes before races and maybe they realize they're soulmates when one of them gets a podium and the other person sees their drawings :)

i understand that you wanted this to be cute. however have you considered that they could be insane instead. have you considered that there could be mind games, bestie. think about the mental warfare (i am)

masterlist

Carlos Sainz believes that his secrets come out the fastest when he’s drinking. Doesn’t even have to be alcohol, his favorite ruiner of silence– he’s let out contract details and personal opinions just as freely with isotonic water after a race as with a shot someone hands him two hours into a post-race celebration. It’s easy to let your guard down when you think you’re with a friend, when the stakes don’t seem high, when he knows better but doesn’t want to admit it.

That’s why he feels a rippling wave of panic when he sees Charles walking across the Ferrari hospitality, two cups of coffee in his hands. Charles sits down at an empty table for two, places one cup in front of himself and one at the empty chair, and looks pointedly at Carlos. Carlos thinks to himself, this can’t be good, and mentally reminds himself to book an appointment with PR sooner rather than later.

He takes the seat. Some things, you can’t fight. Charles still smiles anyway, pleased, and says, “I got you coffee.”

Carlos had noticed this, surprisingly. It was difficult to ignore. “You’re being nice,” he remarks, blowing into the hole on the lid to cool down the liquid inside.

“I am nice,” Charles protests. His accent comes out more when he’s unhappy, it makes the syllables bunch up together like pleats of fabric.

Carlos arches a brow, and takes a sip of his coffee instead of answering. Scuderia Ferrari loves to claim that they adore the art of coffee just as much as their mother country, but every time Carlos gets coffee from hospitality it’s either flavorless or burnt, depending on who serves it. Charles’ attempt isn’t terrible, but he doubts Charles did anything more to prepare it than just put in an order. It’s a nice gesture, though. Just like Charles said.

When he looks up and the steam properly clears from his vision, Charles is still pouting at him. Carlos shakes his head, smiling to himself. He makes it so easy sometimes, to mess with his head. It’s kind of fun. Poker, but with a far prettier deck of cards.

“Alright, fine,” he relents, grinning so Charles knows he’s in on the joke, “I’m just teasing. No need to get mad, cabrón.”

“I’m not mad,” Charles says, a hint of a smile on his face although he stubbornly tries to shake it, “just interested in defending my honor.”

“Your honor?” Carlos asks, laughing in earnest. “So lord-esque, that is what I have been telling you. Of course Lord Perceval would defend his honor.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “You can deal with my honor, mate. I got you coffee.”

“And I am grateful for it every time you bring it up,” Carlos says, and takes a sip to prove it.

Charles does the same, but his eyes remain on Carlos the whole time. “So? Is it true what they’re saying?”

Carlos wants more than coffee for a conversation that starts out like this. “Who’s saying what?”

Charles gestures vaguely towards his phone. “Everybody. They say you’re going to leave Ferrari when your contract expires.”

Ah. That. “People love rumors,” he says absentmindedly, “I never thought you’d pay attention to them.”

“I don’t usually, but I was interested in this one,” Charles admits. “You’d tell me if you were leaving, right?”

“I’m not leaving,” Carlos says.

Charles sets down his cup. “But you’d tell me, right?”

“I would,” Carlos says. Pauses. Starts again. “What’s gotten into you, man? I never took you for someone to fall for theories like this.”

Charles shakes his head a little too quickly. “I’m not. They just seemed to believe it.”

Carlos shrugs. “They believe a lot. My contract doesn’t expire until next year. They won’t worry about me for a while.”

“Should I?” Charles asks. “Worry about you, I mean.”

Carlos looks at him, really looks at him. The tense grip of his teammate’s hands around his coffee, even despite the heat still emanating through the cup. The furtive glances he keeps sneaking towards Carlos, then abruptly looking at the cup again when he gets caught.

“I’m not going,” Carlos says gently. More gently than he’d answer any interviewer, anyway.

Charles nods quickly, his head bobbing like a doll on a string. “Of course. Besides, I have too much interest for you to leave yet. Not until we figure out your, ah–” A pause. Delicate, but not at all from a polite inclination, no matter how it might seem to any outsider.

Carlos groans, exasperated. “My soulmate? My God, Charles, you have to give this up at some point.”

If it were not enough to have an overly inquisitive teammate, one that’s rather good at using his eyes and smile to get what he wanted, Carlos has been cursed with a racing partner that’s unnaturally interested in his missing other half. Carlos himself wants to figure out who his soulmate is, obviously, but at this point he thinks Charles is even more invested.

They all have soulmates. Supposedly. There’s probably at least a couple people out there who skipped that universal drawing of lots, but Carlos knows for certain that he is not one of them because his soulmate contacts him almost every day. Some people go weeks or even months without finding so much as a scribble appearing out of thin air on their skin, but Carlos blinks and there’s a new sentence on his forearm, bruising his knuckles, curling around his ankle. Whoever his soulmate is, they don’t care much for being ignored.

Neither does his teammate. Charles huffs out an exasperated breath. “If you will not be curious, I will be curious for you. You’re always so cagey about it, anyway. I know they write to you. Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course I want to know who they are,” Carlos scoffs. “What I don’t get is why you want to know. Why don’t you focus on your own other half for a change?”

Charles just leans back in his chair, grinning coolly. Ah, yes. Carlos has suspected for some time that Charles already has an idea as to who his soulmate is, but for some reason Carlos has never seen her around the paddock. It could be that Charles is just keeping their relationship private, but he doubts it. Charles likes his trophies visible and his games extensive. More likely than not, Charles has his soulmate engaged in some kind of cat-and-mouse game so they figure it out without too much help on his end. It’s hellishly manipulative, but he’s charming enough that they all let it slide.

Even Carlos, although he at least tries to put up a fight. Sometimes, he thinks Charles is amusingly aware of that, and doubles down on his efforts to get Carlos to cave until both of them are locked in some sort of affectionate stalemate.

“You shouldn’t worry so much,” Charles hums, pleased that he’s got the other hand. “I mean,” he says, leaning forward abruptly to seize Carlos’ hand in his own, “Don’t you want to know about yours? Aren’t you curious?”

Whoever sat at their table before them left a Sharpie behind by accident; Charles picks it up now, uncapping it with the same hand without letting go of Carlos. “You could just ask them right now, who they are,” Charles muses. The tip of the Sharpie hovers millimeters above the curve of Carlos’ palm, waiting.

Carlos stares at the black ink. It’s easier to focus on the skin when he mumbles, “They wouldn’t answer.”

You’re not supposed to. Unspoken rules. He’s never liked that sort of thing, and neither has Charles, who knows this and smiles unkindly anyway. “You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” Carlos asks, mostly to himself. Charles doesn’t appear to hear him. The Sharpie dips lower until it touches Carlos’ skin. Immediately, the black ink flowers into his palm. Carlos waits for Charles to keep writing, to scrawl a question like who are you or can I fly you to a Grand Prix paddock, asap but instead Charles flinches, slams the palm of his own hand down towards the table, and covers up the pen again.

“Maybe you should do it yourself,” Charles mutters by way of explanation.

“Maybe,” Carlos says. He’s not sure if he’s agreeing or not. It would be easier, he thinks, to have Charles take the wheel again. It would also hurt more. Carlos caps the pen when it becomes obvious that Charles will not. “Drink your coffee,” he says. “It’ll get cold.”

Charles does as told, which is sort of surprising. Usually, he likes pushing the envelope until someone tells him to quit it. It appears to Carlos, though, that they have reached an unspoken limit, a line drawn out in black Sharpie on tanned skin that will not be crossed again.

A few minutes pass. They’re both quiet. Charles whispers into the condensation of his cup, “You’re not leaving, though, right?”

Carlos smiles. “I’m not.” Contracts change, obviously, but he’ll try to fight it. They all try.

They leave not long afterwards, race week means that they don’t have a lot of time to sit around. There’s always something to be filmed for media duties, an interview to conduct, checks to run through with engineers. Still, Carlos is somehow calmer than he was before, even despite the additional caffeine.

Charles, by contrast, seems jumpier than usual as they head towards the exit.

“Did you enjoy your coffee?” Carlos asks pointedly.

Charles glances quickly over both shoulders, then groans when he’s sure that no one can overhear him. ��No, God. It’s terrible.”

Carlos chuckles. “But you went to so much trouble to get it. Surely you can pretend it’s more than just terrible. You drank, like, all of it.”

Charles gives him an appraising look. “It’s better with someone else.”

It occurs to Carlos, as he walks back to his driver’s room, that they may not just have been talking about coffee after all. He’s stopped by one of his PR advisors on the way back– apparently there’s a new TikTok trend that would be just great for him to do– and although he doesn’t feel that shaken, he must look it, because they only get halfway through a discussion of trending sounds before the agent asks if everything is alright.

Carlos scoffs. “Of course I’m alright.”

The agent arches a brow. “Are you sure? You look a little unsettled. Don’t tell me you were talking to George about track times again, he has that effect on everyone before qualis.”

Carlos shakes his head. “No, I didn’t see him. I was speaking with Charles, though, about nothing in particular. Just coffee and soulmates and stuff.” Unable to stop himself, he leans a little closer, drops his voice until it’s more of a whisper. “He’s found his soulmate, hasn’t he? She’s got to be around here somewhere.”

His PR agent, surprisingly, shakes their head. “No, he’s said nothing about it to us, and we’ve asked loads of times. Are you certain that they’re a she, though? That wasn’t the impression I got.”

Carlos stands utterly still. He thinks his blood may have cooled in his veins, congealing into a solid. He is not sure he could move if he tried. “Charles told you that?”

“Once,” the agent says offhandedly. “He got sick of us asking about his mystery woman. I don’t think he meant to let it slip, but you know how he is with secrets.”

They’re laughing at that. Carlos tries to chuckle along with him, but he can’t really do more than nod, because now he’s thinking about Charles’ soulmate being a man. It’s the driver in him, he supposes, the dreamer, that if he can imagine any scenario he would also imagine himself in it, and so it follows that now Carlos cannot stop thinking about the man on the other side of Charles’ heart being him, being Carlos. The picture fits a little too well.

Carlos had never pictured his soulmate and thought of a man, but sometimes he’ll be up on the podium with Charles, champagne high and bright in the air, and he thinks maybe– maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, not having a girl like that. He already knows what it’s like, anyway, to be at the top of the world and have another man standing there with him. If God did not intend for us to be with someone of the same sex, then why would He make it feel so natural?

Carlos somehow manages to end the conversation, to slip back into the relative safety of his driver’s room and lean his entire body weight against the door. He stares up at the ceiling, hands fisting the red fabric of his Ferrari jacket at his sides, and he lets himself, for the first time, wonder if his soulmate might not be a man as well. Anything Charles can do, Carlos can too, or so the commentators have started to say. Anyone Charles could love, Carlos could too. Anything his would be theirs.

It is a risky thought. Pessimists will tell you that soulmates are good for nothing but getting your hopes up. Carlos does not know who his soulmate is nor, odds are, will he ever. It does no good to think about what he wants until he already has it.

Later that day, Carlos tells his soulmate in non-descript block letters, All things must end. He caps the pen and covers his hand for the rest of the day. He sees Charles some hours later, looking pale and frightened. Carlos cannot, will not, imagine why.

He tries to push it from his mind. They are not hiding in Ferrari hospitality for the thrill of it, after all, but to prepare for the race ahead. Qualifying comes and goes, nothing to write home about but at least they should be decently in the points. One of them might be able to make it to a podium if they can give Lando Norris the slip. The best case scenario is that Checo will bin it so they could get a 1-2, but who knows if they’ll have any semblance of luck today.

Carlos qualified one position ahead of Charles. Fred Vasseur is already starting to eye him like a lamb to the slaughter, and Carlos makes a mental reminder to continually ask his engineer for Charles’ times during the race. He has a feeling that team orders might be given.

Strangely enough, it doesn’t make Carlos angry towards Charles as much as he thinks it should. He is irritated by Ferrari, of course, for picking one driver over another, but that’s expected in any given scenario in which the cars are swapped. Usually, though, that sort of thing happens enough times that you start directing your ire towards the other driver, but Carlos cannot manage that. In fact, he never has. Hating Charles is unthinkable. It would be easier to hate himself. Right?

Getting ready in his driver’s room before the race that Sunday, Carlos is struck by a sudden, unthinkable idea. He rummages around in his belongings for a while before coming up with a pen. Dark, thick, the kind you use for autographs when the hapless fan forgets to bring a writing implement of their own. Carlos uncaps it, stares at his skin, then starts to scribble. Words, underlined, circled. Do well. Good luck. Please.

He doesn’t know if– but he could, maybe, if he saw. Carlos loses himself in a frenzy, then snaps out of it just as quickly when his palms get covered in writing. The sound of footsteps outside his door makes him flinch, and he tugs on his gloves as fast as he can, smearing the ink even more than before. It doesn’t matter. Odds are nothing will come of this anyway.

The race goes as expected. Checo does not crash, much to the chagrin of all other teams, and Carlos gets stuck behind him long enough that they start talking about switching him with Charles, which happens around lap forty. When the checkered flag waves, Charles is third, Carlos fourth. He parks quickly and hurries over to the front. By the time he gets there, Charles has already withdrawn inside the cooldown room but Carlos can shoulder in with the other Ferrari crew and shout and slap each other on the back and that’s good, too, it really is.

He will tell himself that it is. Carlos, by now, has gone to a lot of teams and learned about a lot of strategy choices. He knows how to convince himself that something is fine, that the decisions of the team are ones he agrees with. He can idle with the crew and stare up at the podium with a fixed smile on his face, because Carlos is a Good Teammate and Good Teammates show up for each other. They accept team orders when they come their way. They do not stand in the shade of someone else’s idol and think, this isn’t fair.

Of course it isn’t fair, it’s motorsport. Charles is the one they love the most, even when he’s erratic and crashes every other race. Charles is the pretty boy, the golden one, Il Predestinato. Carlos is merely his father’ son.

Charles, who figured out the whole game of soulmates months before. He guessed, at least. Told that to Carlos one night, grinning, drunk, spiraling after another lost podium. Charles had waited with wide eyes and a frozen smile as if waiting for Carlos to put something together, but the other shoe never dropped and eventually the moment ended, both of them pulled apart by other friends, downing other drinks, pretending they never existed.

Carlos thinks of it now. He watches Charles emerge from the shadows of the space behind the podium to stand in the blinding sunlight, waving down at all of them. One of the mechanics is elbowing him in the side, speaking in that low voice they all get when they do the boy’s club talk, you know, someone’s soulmate likes him well enough, obviously, and Carlos has no idea what he’s talking about until he looks up and sees. Sees Charles, his palms dark with ink. From up here, it’s too small to see what is written. The Catholic boy in him thinks stigmata which is wrong, obviously, because there is no great divine mystery here, not when Carlos knows what happened.

Not when Carlos was the one to write all of it earlier that day. He’d almost forgotten during the course of the race, but it all comes flooding back now. That’s his ink on Charles’ hands, and that means– That means Charles is his soulmate. Always has been. Always will be.

Carlos stares up at him. Charles looks down, and although he’s been grinning with victory this whole time, the smile that slides onto his face upon seeing his teammate is different than before, it’s knowing. Charles knows that Carlos has figured it out at last. He’s been waiting for him to do it all this time.

It’s almost obscene, how close Charles must have come to telling him about a thousand times. Who would risk it like that? No one. Charles would. Carlos pictures him with the Sharpie earlier that week, black tip poised above his skin. How he’d caught himself before giving himself up. Perfect timing, a driver’s reflexes. Like managing to right yourself right before sending your car into the wall. Or, better, like doing it anyway. Like accelerating before you go. Like leaving your hands on the wheel so your wrists can break, too, not just your heart.

Yes, Charles would. Charles Leclerc would. Charles, so impatient for his first championship that he’d give up his current chance by overshooting every corner, by doing too much until he ends up in the wall time and time again. This is the man who would expose his soulmate like a throat to a knife, and Carlos has known this about him for years.

The Ferrari section of the paddock is insane after getting a podium, so no one notices when Carlos fights his way through the crowds to let himself into Charles’ driver’s room. It’s empty when he arrives, Charles must have many more people to get through, so he paces relentlessly back and forth until Charles shows up.

Charles bursts through the door, still talking to someone down the hall. His exuberance crashes to a halt the second he sees Carlos waiting, and he hurriedly tells whoever is there not to wait up. Charles carefully closes the door behind him, locks it too, and then it’s just the two of them and this great and all encompassing secret for company.

Charles swallows. “You know.”

Of course he does. Friends show up at each other’s driver’s rooms all the time, but this isn’t just on the order of congratulations for a good race result. They would not be hovering on the edge of this great precipice if it was just that.

“You knew earlier,” Carlos challenges.

Charles ducks his head in a nod. “I did.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Carlos asks.

Charles’ gaze is shifty, it flicks from ceiling to floor to walls, anywhere but Carlos himself. Charles has always been a daredevil for the risks, but he’s never had the stomach for what becomes of them. The consequences are always a thousand times worse than the actions.

“I didn’t think you would want it. Want me,” he corrects, almost whispering.

This is so absurd that Carlos almost wants to laugh. Almost, because the look on Charles’ face is so pitiful that he can’t even smile. “Why wouldn’t I?” Carlos asks.

Charles blinks in surprise. “Because you were never even that interested in finding out who your soulmate was, mate. Always said it would just be some girl you didn’t know. I didn’t want to see your face when you realized you didn’t even get some girl but me.”

“I didn’t want to look too much into my soulmate because I was afraid it wouldn’t be you,” Carlos says in a rush, and as he admits it he knows it’s true.

How could it be anything but that? Carlos could have picked any team, but he went here. A hardheaded (formerly red) bull chasing not just the scarlet flag but the matador himself. Charles, all along.

Charles’ eyes are wide, lashes darker even than the ink still staining his palms. “So you’re not mad, then?” He asks cautiously.

“Not mad and not leaving,” Carlos reiterates.

A ghost of a smile flickers over Charles’ lips. “You cannot blame me for wanting to be sure, I didn’t want you to go until I managed to tell you.”

“You certainly took your time about it,” Carlos comments.

Charles rolls his eyes. “Just because we are racers does not mean we have to do everything fast, Carlos. Be patient.”

Carlos arches a brow. “You are telling me that?”

Charles has the grace to look at least a little ashamed. “Yes. Well. I can be patient now.”

Of course he can. They both can. Most people spend their entire lives searching for the answer to a question that is no longer a mystery to either of them. Time is all they have, time and sweet-sticky champagne and the sensation of being at the top of the world. Nothing will change them. Everything will. For once, though, the change does not scare him. It’s not bad, all of the time.

Sometimes, it brings him Charles. Sometimes, it brings him this. No, not bad in the slightest.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy, @juphey

also: @quill-of-a-sparrow

all tags list: @wordsarelife

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sixth-light · 1 year ago

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ok ok slightly feral post as promised.

first, some context setting: I think it's really interesting to analyse texts in terms of both what the author was trying to do (and whether they succeeded) and what they ended up doing (intentionally or not) and I think their cultural/historical context is vital if you want to do this. I'm not interested in whether Robert Jordan or the Wheel of Time are, like, morally correct in their politics or whatever. I'm interested in what the art is trying to do.

and the thing about Jordan, see, is that he projected this image during his lifetime of a Genial Older Man (see: beard and pipe) but he...wasn't actually that old! He was 42 when EoTW was published. He died at 58. He was a Baby Boomer publishing books at a time when Baby Boomers were the hip young generation taking over from stodgy WWII veterans (Gen Z: It Will Happen To You Too).

What this means is that he was a child and adolescent during the Civil Rights movement, in a then-majority Black city in the Jim Crow South*. He would have gone to segregated schools. The tertiary institutions he attended had only started to desegregate a year or two before he attended each of them. I think his war trauma in Vietnam gets a lot of attention because he did talk about it and also because that's a narrative we understand for white men, but I think we...skim over the impact on white men of growing up at this time because? Civil Rights only happened to Black Americans I guess? but it's his context too. Similarly, he was an adolescent and young man at the time the (white) feminist movement was really kicking off in the US. he was in his mid-20s when banks were first legally *required* to allow women to open accounts and have credit cards in their own names. he went on to marry a woman a decade older than him, who had left her husband to raise her son as a single mother while continuing a professional career in the early 70s; these were issues that must have been incredibly relevant for her.

and what we see in his writing is attempts to grapple with gender and race that are self-evidently of mixed success, but I think have to be contextualised in light of this period of immense change he grew up in. Think about the predominance of women as merchants and bankers in WoT, in the context of how recent their rights to even control their own money were in the US. The...everything...he was trying to do with the Seanchan, making them extra-canonically Southern American-coded. The Whitecloaks as the KKK (among other things, of course).

As an example, I think there's also something probably unintentional but fascinating in the way he presents the pre-Breaking Aiel: bluntly, they are a distinct ethnic group in hereditary servitude (always thinking about how that ancestor of Rand's in the Rhuidean sequence had to get permission from Mierin Sedai to switch to someone else's service so he could marry his girlfriend, this is...uh...super cognate to issues enslaved Black people faced). They're associated with agriculture through the Song sequence. And they're pretty much the ideal of what slave-owning Southern American culture WANTED enslaved Black people to be: completely happy to serve. Then, as the post-breaking Aiel, they become feared as a source of violence, which resonates with the way that enslaved people were feared by their slavers.

I don't think for a second that the intention here was to depict the AoL as a Secret Slavery Dystopia, I think we're meant to take the Rhuidean flashback sections pretty much as they read on the page. But I also think putting Jordan in his historical and cultural context does pose the comparison. Similarly, I find it really interesting that he positions Seanchan as riven by constant revolts and uprisings (because it's a fascist slaver regime) but he never ever goes so far as to link enslaved people in Seanchan (damane and da'covale) to those revolts and uprisings, even though that is fundamentally the deep fear *for real and obvious reasons* of all slavery-based societies.

Or then there's the changes to the Two Rivers in the books - like, both then and now I think it's actually pretty radical to present an influx of Muslim-coded refugees of colour as a thing that enriches the Two Rivers both socially and economically. Various characters are wistful that it's changed, but they don't think it's bad. The text here is really clear that welcoming the Domani and Almoth Plain refugees is both morally right and beneficial. And this is in a book being written and published shortly after the first Gulf War.

There's so many more things like this where I just have no real idea what he was trying to do on purpose and what was accidental and what was fun for him in fiction but did not necessarily link at all to his real-world political beliefs. but gosh it's interesting to turn over and poke at.

#wheel of time #wot book spoilers #robert jordan #and then there's things like...IIRC some stuff about Gareth Bryne is referencing General Lee #and I know a lot of you are Bryne haters but the point here is not #that that means Bryne is bad #it's: how hard was RJ thinking about that and why did he do it at all?

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lisbeth-kk · 6 months ago

Text

May Prompts (28) Empty

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 28)

Summary: Will Rosie be able to keep her secret from her parents until the big day?

Twenty-Eight Years Old

Seen in hindsight, the trip to Greece was a catalyst of what came later. On our last evening, Timothy and I had dinner at an almost empty restaurant on the cliffs of Fira. The sun was about to set, and the sea was bathed in colours of gold. When Timothy took my hands in his and asked me to marry him, it really was the perfect ending. Cliché, perhaps, but who cares? Luckily, he hadn’t bought the rings at one of the ridiculous jewellers on the island but brought them with him from London. (I said yes, by the way.)

***

As if faith wanted me to keep my secret from my parents, they were away on a three-week trip to New Zealand when we arrived back in London. I called Dee before I went to Baker Street to collect mail and check the fridge for outdated milk and decayed body parts. She had closed for the day, but when I called with my inquiry, she was instantly intrigued and asked me to pop into 221A before I left.

It was strange to see someone else living at Nana’s. Her old furniture had been donated to second-hand shops, new wallpaper, art, and futuristically designed chairs, tables and shelves made 221A look like something taken out of Star Trek or whatever. The kitchen and bathroom were recognisable with bits and bobs I remembered. Nana’s oven mittens, the kitchen utensils and the wallpaper. Over the kitchen table was a big photo of Nana.

“I’ve made some sketches for you,” Dee said after she’d inquired about the trip. “One on each shoulder, yes?”

She showed me her drawings and after some discussion, she made the adjustments I wanted.

“See you tomorrow at six,” Dee said when I left.

“Can’t wait!” I retorted excitedly.

***

Dee’s Den was everything you don’t expect a tattoo-studio to be. (At least if you’ve never set foot in one.) Airy, spacious and clean in the extreme. The first time I entered, I felt I needed to take my shoes off.

“No customer of mine will suffer from an infection. I’ve seen enough of that shit,” Dee said gravely.

Her improved sketches had been coloured when I arrived the next day, and they looked even better than I’d dreamt of. The tattoos would adorn each shoulder. One red poppy on the left, and a bee on the right. A t-shirt would cover them, and by the time Dad and Papa were back, they would’ve healed properly so I didn’t need to wrap them in plastic, and the soreness would be gone. I hoped to keep them a secret until the wedding day. My dress would be sleeveless and make sure to show off the tribute to my beloved parents.

***

We decided on a May wedding, and it was Dee’s idea to check if the venue from Nana’s funeral was available.

“She would’ve been so pleased that you all had some good memories from that place. Dancing and laughing, celebrating love.”

Both me and Timothy loved the idea, and we were in luck. Normally, the place needed to be booked at least a year and a half in advance, when it came to weddings, but they’d had a cancellation due to a broken engagement. Nine months to prepare.

***

I chose Liwia as my maid of honour. We had stayed in touch over the years, and she adored my parents, after they’d given her shelter when she needed it in the middle of her teens. Bella had been switched for Iris. They’d been together almost eight years, and Iris was six months pregnant with their first child. An unknown donor was the father.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you were traumatised when you stayed with us,” I said on the final fitting of our dresses.

“What do you mean?” Liwia asked, clearly puzzled.

“Board games,” I explained dryly.

She laughed wholeheartedly and admitted that she’d never played Scrabble, Cluedo, orMonopoly, but stuck to chess and card games.

“Wise choice,” I retorted with a grin. “Though I have experienced knights, queens and bishops being thrown across 221B.”

***

My uncles picked me up at the salon where I’d been styled and dressed. Uncle Myc cocked an eyebrow when he saw my tattoos, but he was unable to hide how moved he was by this permanent gesture. Uncle Greg…well, he wasn’t that subtle, and needed a stern talking to from his husband to avoid ruining my dress and hair when he teared up and embraced me.

“You’re going to destroy them with this, love,” uncle Greg murmured.

I hadn’t been nervous before, but when the familiar place came into sight, my palms started to sweat, and my heart pounded in my chest. Inside, Timothy and my parents waited. The most important people in the world, apart from the men helping me out of the car. I kissed them and let them go in first to find their seats. One of the staff stood waiting for me to open the door once I’d decided to enter.

For a while I just stood there, my head blessfully empty. And then out of nowhere a wave of emotions washed over me. The memories of all the preparations and anxiety of the last week, regarding the flowers, the last seat arrangements we had to change the day prior, one of my shoes that disappeared without a trace…

“Come on, Watson. You can do this,” I interrupted myself, using Papa’s former name on me to get me out of the unending loop of trifles and keep me focused.

I nodded to the man by the door who opened it for me, and I slowly made my way down the corridor to where Dad and Papa waited. They stood hand in hand outside the door to the ceremony room and turned abruptly when they heard my heels on the wooden floor.

“You look…”

“Oh, Bee…”

They were both teary-eyed, which didn’t bode well. I hoped they’d piled up with tissues, because this well would not be emptied any time soon.

With my heels on, I was the height of Dad. I seldom wore high-heeled shoes, so it was an alien feeling to stand face to face with him, literally speaking.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he whispered in my ear when he hugged me.

“Thank you,” I said and turned to Papa.

He’d frozen and he blinked profusely. Dad looked worried at him. He still hadn’t seen the tattoos. Papa’s eyes darted between them, clearly shocked to the core. I took his hand and squeezed it.

“Do you like them?” I asked quietly.

��Like what?” Dad inquired; his eyes hadn’t left Papa’s face during all of this.

“Look at me, Dad,” I said and finally he saw what Papa had seen minutes ago.

“Oh, my god,” he said and covered his mouth with his hand. “Rosie.”

“They are…” Papa clearly knew but was too shaken to believe what he’d deduced.

“Yes, Papa. They are. My tribute, homage, or whatever you want to call it. To you and Dad. To show you and everyone how much you mean to me. Dee made them while you were away. You have no idea how proud I am that I’ve managed to keep it a secret until now.”

Finally, out of his daze, Papa cupped my face and kissed my forehead and cheeks, careful not to disturb my hair or makeup.

“My precious girl,” he murmured. “I love you.”

“Stop! You’re making me cry,” I protested and tried my best to stay composed.

Dad sniffled and batted his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m never going to survive this day,” he muttered.

“John!” Papa exclaimed. “Don’t you dare.”

I knew I had to take the lead, or we would be stranded outside that door forever.

“Come on. The game is afoot,” I teased.

Also available on AO3

YES, there will be a continuation tomorrow.

This is also my entry for this month's Sherlock Challenge and the prompt ink.

@calaisreno @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

More tags in the replies

#may prompts 2024 #may 28: empty #sherlock challenge #ink #sherlock fandom #rosie watson #sherlock #john watson #mycroft holmes #greg lestrade #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #ao3 fanfic

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thesensteawitch · 7 months ago

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WHAT SECRETS ARE KEPT IN YOUR HEART?🫶🏼🌷🫶🏼🌷🫶🏼🌷🫶🏼🌷

Pick A Pile Reading

(Left to Right- Pile 1, Pile 2, Pile 3)

Hey, Senstea Souls! 💘

This is a collective reading. Please take what resonates and leave what doesn't.

Feel free to message me in case you wish to book a tarot reading with me.

Booking Form|Rate Card

Tips are not mandatory but are always appreciated.

Pile 1

Tarot Cards- 5 of Swords, 6 of Swords, 5 of Wands, 8 of Pentacles, Strength, Page of Cups

This is about a dream. Either this pile is a writer or a singer. Maybe both. You are afraid of the competition. You are supposed to release the fear of being seen. Not that you don't want your art to get recognized, but there's something within you that you don't want the world to see. You're afraid to be judged by others. You are afraid that the world won't accept you. But the cards are asking you to show the world the real you. You have great ideas. Your imagination runs wild. The creativity that is burning in your heart can lead you to great success and recognition. Somewhere, you are afraid of the change. You need to speak up. It's time to show the world what you have. Don't create in isolation. Let others be a part of your creative journey too.

Pile 2

Tarot Cards- King of Swords, 7 of Wands, Page of Swords, 7 of Swords, 9 of Swords, Wheel of Fortune, 7 of Cups, The Hierophant

You come off as a logical and intellectual person, but others do not know how indecisive you are. There's so much overthinking going on behind any move you make. You constantly battle to find the right words or make the right choice so that you can free yourself from any bondage. You sometimes wish to find a shortcut to peace, but you know there isn't. You have to make choices and live a life that is an outcome of your will. You truly want to free yourself from the never-ending battle. Your heart seeks peace among this chitter chatter of the world. You are trying to find a way out of a tricky situation. It's advised that you go by the books. Do the right thing. But don't be too rigid, either. I think you really need to talk with someone about your conflicting situation and thoughts.

Pile 3

Tarot Cards- Queen of Pentacles, Page of Pentacles, 7 of Pentacles, Knight of Wands, 6 of Cups, The Tower

You have been working on something for quite a while now. You are patiently waiting to see the results of your work. The good news is that the results are manifesting in your reality. You do wonder, though, why it's slow. I also feel that you are waiting for the connection to revive again, which abruptly went down. You're holding on to hope. I just heard, “Living for the hope of it all." The universe is testing your commitment towards your goals and as a person. There's some sort of nostalgic feeling in your heart. Lately, you have been living in the past a lot. I also see some of you revisiting the past and making sure you don't make the same mistake again in the future. You faced a terrible ending to a connection. The dream you had shattered. And now you clearly see why! Now you seek stability in your life, and you're not impatient anymore. You're okay with taking things slow. The universe is also testing your patience, and you know it. I also see you taking care of your body and spending time in nature. You're really taking care of your heart, pile 3.

#pick a pile tarot #tarot reader #tarot cards #tarot reading #tarot readings #tarotcommunity #pick a pile #pick a pile reading #message for the collective #tarotblr #pac reading #tarot witch #divine messages #angel guardian

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novella-november · 2 months ago

Note

So uh, how are you planning to enforce the "no AI" rule? What do you plan to do if a participant is accused of using unacceptable software?

There's no submissions and no enforcement.

If someone is posting the in #Novella November & #NovellaNovember tags:

clearly-AI generated content (such as AI-generated book covers)

bragging about using AI

Talking about how they used x AI program to make X part of the book

etc

Then I can guarantee you they're going to simply be blocked by a few thousand writers en masse.

Probably they will get at least a few people trying to talk to them about the harm that AI does, and better alternatives that don't mass-steal from a few million unconsenting people--

alternatives like:

finding someone to partner with to discuss your ideas for brainstorming instead of asking an AI chatbot

Joining a "secret gift" group where everyone digitally "pulls a name out of a hat" or is randomly selected to make a cover for someone else's book idea

commissioning an actual artist for a cover

youtube tutorials on how to use GIMP as a free Photoshop alternative to make your own cover, with links to sites such as Pexels that have free stockphotos for anyone to use

Choosing a lower, more manageable daily word count goal if 1k or 500 is too out of line with your work schedule/ability to write on your own instead of resorting to AI generation to try to make up the difference out of anxiety

finding alternative medias to 'write' with, such as using an app on your phone or the in-built accessibility features on Windows that let you use your voice to type, so if you can't physically type or write with your hands or other limbs, you can instead dictate your novel outloud, which would also work if you are often away from home or can't actively use your phone but *can* record your voice passively as you work with your hands on another task :)

so...... yeah.

Literally the only things that would happen if someone tries to use AI in the #Novella November and #NovellaNovember tags would be the writing community collectively:

attempting some outreach; education is key to realizing the harm being done, after all! Maybe the person just doesn't know any better, and felt like that was their only option to reach their goal.

blocking the person, and if they're actively malicious in their AI use (such as fully knowing how much it harms writers/artists, how much of it is based on plagarism, or actively going out of their way to steal other people's work) people will probably start warning others about them as well so they can be blocked in advance, the same as other people who are harmful to communities.

This is a community initiative, spearheaded by this blog purely because I came up with the idea first and want to make sure that, at least to start out and as long as I can manage it, the community is the key part of being supporting and caring of each other, because billion dollar tech companies and those who are swayed by their money sure as heck aren't going to stand with us.

If someone is ""accused of using unacceptable software"" ..... they're just gonna get blocked if they're posting AI generated content, like everyone else who posts AI generated content get blocked by the community at large as they're encountered.

I'll repeat again: this is a community initiative, not an organization. There's no submissions people are sending anywhere to "confirm" word counts; --

Only:

people posting their celebrations and woes in the tag,

posting their frustrations and questions,

receiving answers and advice from the community,

sharing art and snippets, making covers, making decorative goal cards,

No AI is allowed in Novella November -- if people are posting or bragging about using AI generated content, they're simply going to be announcing themselves to thousands of writers (plus everyone who follows those writers) that they're a good person to block and never interact with 🤷

#replies #anti ai #novella november #novellanovember

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severus-snaps · 2 months ago

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Snape and Poison

I got distracted whilst writing a different meta so just thought I'd list every time I've come across that Snape was associated with poison in the series.

I first started thinking about all of this because Lucius was trying to get rid of poison in Borgin & Burkes at the beginning of CoS:

“ — and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear — ” “I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let me see …”

...and I liked the idea that Snape was originally the one to brew it. Although unlikely, I also enjoy the idea that Snape had a hand in both the poison Draco attempted to use to kill Dumbledore, and Voldemort's emerald potion which ultimately did kill Dumbledore - because how sad if, no matter what he did, Snape was always the one destined to end Dumbledore's life?

It's obvious that Snape is most closely associated with potions in the books, but Snape is also the most consistently associated character with poison (with the notable exception perhaps being Slughorn - but even then it's shown that Harry is mostly learning from the Prince):

Philosopher's Stone Snape's introductory lesson outlines how a bezoar will save you from most poisons; he brews poisons for the PS riddle; his introductory speech includes how to "stopper death":

Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar? ... For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. … I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death

From WebMD: Aconite contains a strong, fast-acting poison that causes severe side effects such as nausea, vomiting, breathing problems, heart problems, and death.

Snape's riddle/poem:

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line. Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore, To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four: First, however slyly the poison tries to hide You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side

Chamber of Secrets Snape looks as though anyone who approached him about a love potion would be force-fed poison in CoS:

“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!” Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

Prisoner of Azkaban The trio think Snape is trying to poison Lupin in PoA; Snape sets an essay on undetectable poisons; Snape warns that potions brewed incorrectly can turn to poisons (revisited when the Trio visit Arthur in hospital in OotP post-Nagini, and a sign reads: "A clean cauldron keeps potions from becoming poisons."), and threatens to 'poison' Trevor.

Harry looked curiously at the goblet ... Professor Lupin took another sip and Harry had a crazy urge to knock the goblet out of his hands. “Professor Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts,” he blurted out. “Some people reckon — ” Harry hesitated, then plunged recklessly on, “some people reckon he’d do anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.” “But if he — you know” — Hermione dropped her voice, glancing nervously around — “if he was trying to — to poison Lupin — he wouldn’t have done it in front of Harry.” Harry sat finishing a nasty essay on Undetectable Poisons for Snape. “Everyone gather ’round,” said Snape, his black eyes glittering, “and watch what happens to Longbottom’s toad. If he has managed to produce a Shrinking Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don’t doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be poisoned.”

Goblet of Fire Snape implies he'll poison someone, and Harry absolutely thinks that Snape wants to poison him in GoF; Moody says Dark wizards can poison an unattended cup, and regularly checks his food for poison (wouldn't do him any good if they were undetectable however); Snape later threatens to practically do the same thing to Harry that Moody is trying to avoid by only drinking from a flask, and slip something into Harry's drink [only with Veritaserum this time, not poison] when he thinks Harry has broken into his potions supplies again

“Brilliant!” said Harry. “It’s Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won’t have time to poison us all!” “Antidotes!” said Snape, looking around at them all, his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. “You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting someone on whom to test one. …” Snape’s eyes met Harry’s, and Harry knew what was coming. Snape was going to poison him. Moody had told them all during their last Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that he preferred to prepare his own food and drink at all times, as it was so easy for Dark wizards to poison an unattended cup. [“It is Veritaserum — a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear,” said Snape viciously. “Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips” — he shook the crystal bottle slightly — “right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter … then we’ll find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.” - interesting also because Moody had also been in Snape's office] Professors McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes too, and Snape, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than adopt Harry. Staring nastily around at them all, he informed them that he would be testing them on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term. He found it hard to concentrate on Snape’s Potions test, and consequently forgot to add the key ingredient — a bezoar — meaning that he received bottom marks... Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass bottle of completely clear liquid: the Veritaserum with which he had threatened Harry in class.

Order of the Phoenix Ron says "Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots" when discussing Snape, his general personality, and whether Snape ever truly stopped working for Voldemort (echoes leopards never change their spots/Moody's "spots that don't come off" in GoF); Snape discusses the use of Veritaserum, poison, and venom on Harry with Umbridge, and expresses his 'sympathy' (read: apparent desire) to use poison on Harry; when advising Harry to continue Potions during his careers discussion, McGonagall said that poisons and antidotes were essential study for Aurors, and that Snape would not accept students below an Outstanding

“I wish you to provide me with a potion that will force him to tell me the truth!” “I have already told you,” said Snape smoothly, “that I have no further stocks of Veritaserum. Unless you wish to poison Potter — and I assure you I would have the greatest sympathy with you if you did — I cannot help you. The only trouble is that most venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for truth-telling…” “...Then you ought to do Charms, always useful, and Potions. Yes, Potter, Potions,” she added, with the merest flicker of a smile. “Poisons and antidotes are essential study for Aurors. And I must tell you that Professor Snape absolutely refuses to take students who get anything other than ‘Outstanding’ in their O.W.L.s, so — ”

Half-Blood Prince The Prince inherently understood Golpalott’s Third Law on antidotes to poisons, and then the plot revisits the bezoar from PS both as a means of helping Harry in class but also to save Ron.

“You sure the Prince hasn’t got any tips?” Ron muttered to Harry. Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion-Making and turned to the chapter on antidotes. There was Golpalott’s Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince’s hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding it. And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes: Just shove a bezoar down their throats. Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn’t he once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn’t Snape mentioned them in their first-ever Potions lesson? “A stone taken from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons.” It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not have dared do it... He hurtled back to Ron’s side, wrenched open his jaw, and thrust the bezoar into his mouth.

Not rooted in reality at all but a theory I once came across that I cradle like a fascinating little animal that I just can't stop looking at, is that Snape and Dumbledore somehow switch bodies before 'Dumbledore' takes Harry to the cave, and then switch back in time for Dumbledore to actually die at Snape's hand.

And, of course, the (separate but works here too) theory that back as a 'real' Death Eater, Snape helped Voldemort with the emerald potion that was already killing Dumbledore when Snape finished the job.

Deathly Hallows More tenuously, Aberforth asks "where will you lot traffick potions and poisons when my pub’s closed down", and it was the Hog's Head where Snape was lurking when he overheard the prophecy - whether that was as part of his role as spy/he was applying for a job like Trelawney said, or because he was an opportunist with a sideline in poisons - I enjoy both ideas).

Not just poison: Snape and venom

The series also mixes up (or at least uses interchangeably at times) venom and poison; although to a lesser extent associated with venom, Snape does have his moments where he is associated with venom - ultimately, of course, his final moments are spent under the influence of Nagini's.

Snape is described as shooting Harry (and Ron) "a look of pure venom" in CoS; he sets an essay on antivenoms in OotP; "Harry’s anger at Snape continued to pound through his veins like venom" during Occlumency lessons in OotP; "The only trouble is that most venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for truth-telling" says Snape, two books before attempting to find a way to tell the truth no matter how fast-acting Nagini's venom is; when Harry sees Arthur dying of Nagini's bite, it is Snape who has to teach Harry Occlumency to prevent such a thing from happening again, and Snape who ultimately dies of the same attack - but he does not, due to timing (mid-Battle and all) or ill will receive the same rush from the entire Order to attempt to save him, and despite all of his knowledge of poisons and venoms and antidotes, also does not save himself - despite Slughorn being described as carrying around antidotes to things like Veritaserum on the off chance that Dumbledore tries to get a memory out of him, so carrying antidotes for a well-prepared and cunning Slytherin of a certain level of skill is not unheard of, or impossible.

#snape meta #severus snape #snape #professor snape #pro severus snape #snape fandom #pro snape #snapedom #snaps-meta #sort of #half baked metas #snape and poison #no conclusions only vibes

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underaverageheight · 11 months ago

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paint my love

hwang hyunjin x artist!gn!reader genre: fluff warning(s): none other than hyune being a bit of a crybaby

note: took me a while but i finally got to fully write out my little thought from here because tbh sending in asks to sage gets my brain going lol

word count: 2.1k omg

“Hey Bin! Um... can you do me a favor? Like a big, big favor?” Your best friend nodded eagerly, awaiting your words. "Can you... buy me a studio? Nothing huge. Just a studio?"

Changbin looked at you as if you were speaking gibberish. At this point, real gibberish would have made more sense. "Um. I love you but why? You have a studio and Hyunjin. Ask Hyunjin."

"Well, you see... I want to give him a new studio for our anniversary but I want to keep it a secret. A very secret secret and it’s not like I can drop a grand or two randomly and play it off." You looked at Changbin, reaching for his hand on the table. "I need you, Binnie."

He raised his eyebrow. "You need my money."

"Well... yeah. But I'm a good friend so I'll say I need you. Besides, I'll pay you back," Grinning, you gave him the best puppy eyes you could muster, causing him to groan in defeat.

"Fine." He pulled out his card. "For the love of this world, do NOT go buying a whole bunch of buildings. Okay? Ask Chan for his card if you're gonna do that." Changbin smirked and handed you his card before getting up to pat Hyunjin's shoulder, who looked at you with a puzzled facial expression.

Later that day, you spent your time sketching cherry blossom trees, scraps of your designs littered the floor of your shared room-turned-mini-studio, which was mostly filled with Hyunjin’s finished projects and some half-finished projects. With both of you being artists, many of your projects mixed with Hyunjin's. You tugged at one of his binders and flipped through the paints your boyfriend had bought or created. You found various shades of pink and red, ones you considered using for your project. After all, it had to be the most perfect anniversary gift for him.

"I'm home~" Hyunjin kicked off his shoes and found you scavenging through his binders and some of your folders. He gave you a quick peck on the top of your head. "Artistic rush?" You nodded and he chuckled, sitting down next to you. "What are you looking for?"

"Just some shades. I'm trying to find the nature catalog." Humming softly, you leaned against his shoulder. "I had a little thought." Laughing softly, you traced patterns on your boyfriend's thigh. "How was practice?"

"It was kinda fun today. We goofed off mostly and we were all okay with it. Even Minho was okay with it." Hyunjin tangled his fingers in the locks of your hair before reaching into a mess of binders and pulled a smaller one out. "Here."

"Thanks Hyunnie.” He hummed his acknowledgement, kissing your cheek again.

“I’m gonna shower and work on some things,” He got up and went to get his clothes from your bedroom. You, on the other hand, grabbed a spare bin, put the catalog, some paints you could easily find, and many brushes or various shapes inside. The rest of the day, you looked into multiple art studios, trying to find ones with a nice view and large windows.

“This is the one.” You found a lovely, spacious yet cozy studio that faced the west, allowing one to see the prettiest sunsets from the room. Booking a viewing appointment for tomorrow, you quickly made another checklist; things to double check and look for to make sure what you were buying had the proper things. Grabbing your tote bag, a birthday gift from your boyfriend who painted delicate roses on the sides, you put the list in, your car keys, and your wallet with Changbin’s card inside.

“As you can see, this studio has a smaller, more private office area with a lovely view of the city. It’s perfect for smaller businesses or artists or all kinds. Out here,” the realtor led you out of the little office to the outside space, “is the kitchen and a large open area here that can fit your various needs. Should it be a living room, meeting area, art studio based on your pretty bag there.” The woman smiled, gesturing to your tote bag.

“It’s beautiful. May I check and look around the studio?”

“Feel free to. I have another client downstairs so take as much time as you need,” The realtor smiled and left, going to the bottom floor to meet the client. Looking around, you checked for any damage, locating wall outlets, checking the space, checking the windows. Satisfied, you went down the many floors to find the realtor, going to make your down payment with Changbin’s card.

You better love and use that studio to bits and pieces. Pay me back when you can :>

Texting Changbin back that you promise to pay him back, you drove home, catching Hyunjin on his way back to the house from a company dinner. Next week, you’d start the painting and prep. “Hi Jinnie! I finally figured out my artistic rush. So unfortunately I’ll be busy for a long long time.”

You giggled at the silly ferret’s antics. “Oh no! You’re going to disappear off the face of the Earth for a long time. When can I expect your kisses?” “Mmm… a week or two?”Jaw drop.

“Lord. Are you being summoned to paint down in the depths of hell? What are you painting? A skyscraper?” Hyunjin pounced on you, hugging you tightly and peppering kisses all over you. “Come back alive, my love.”

“Dramatic.” Laughing, you hugged him back, with a big grin, “I just wanna perfect this project. Besides, I literally see you everyday, angel.”

“Alright, alright fine.”

For a few days, you spent hours painting the walls, deciding on a green summery background, with faint mountains in the background. Coming home, you set your bags down, sighing, glad to be home. “Babyy!” Hyunjin comes to you, hugging and spinning you around with a wide grin. “You have green paint on your cheek… You’re really using that nature binder, huh?”

You flushed a light pink, attempting to wipe off the dried paint. “Ah…” Laughing slightly, you rest your face against Hyunjin’s chest. Stilling slightly, Hyunjin brought his hands up to your head and your back, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

A week later, you set the wet brush down on the paper, admiring your work. In the center of the wall was a grand cherry blossom tree, its branches stretching across the walls and parts of the ceiling. The white and pink blossoms stood out against the greenery, a flurry of floating blossoms seeming to drift in the wind. After hours of research, you found UV paint and glow in the dark paint. You outlined the tree and some blossoms. You added small details in your mural, working a lot later than you normally had, determined to finish this soon.

By the time you finished detailing, you gasped in wonder as the paint glowed brightly, seeming to shine brighter than the night life down below. The next and last day, you took the UV paint, marking up the mural with tiny messages. Satisfied, you sat on the couch, taking in the view of your finished mural. You were proud of the work you produced, stopping to admire it while you were cleaning up the studio. Before you left for the day, you left a little bag on the counter with a note.

“Can you believe we’ve almost been dating for 4 years?” Hyunjin smiled as he held you close, his arms wrapped around you, blanketing you with his warmth.

“Speaking of which, I planned dinner at the restaurant we went to on our first date tomorrow.”

“Really? Do you think your message is still by that table in the corner?” Hyunjin’s eyes shined, recalling the memory.

On your first date with him, you both went to this small local restaurant. It was cozy yet elegant in its own way. After finishing your meals, you pointed at the wall next to the table, decorated with messages from its many visitors. “For good luck?” Hyunjin shrugged, pretending not to seem overly excited. “Sure.” You found an open area on the wall, scribbling the date. You thought for a moment before writing Y/n & Hyun - our first date ~ Hyunjin tried his best to hide his smile as you got up to use the restroom. Unbeknownst to you, he stood up and wrote a message of his own near the ceiling, convinced you’d never see his wish for luck.

“Good morning darling. Happy anniversary~” You woke up to a decorated room, the walls of your shared room covered in many sketches and drawings.

“What is this?” Walking over to the walls, you read off the writing on a smaller sketch. “‘The 73rd thing I love about you. Your sleeping patterns.’” The sketch depicted a person, presumably yourself, curled up like a koala. You laughed and looked at other sketches. “‘The 12th thing I love about you. Your hugs.’ ‘The 5th thing I love about you. Your smile.’ ‘The 1st thing I love about you. You.’ Aw Jinnie… I love it so much. It’s beautiful. I love you so much. Happy anniversary my love.” You hugged your boyfriend tightly, kissing him lovingly.

“Where is it…” Your finger traced the walls, scanning for your message. “Found it! Right here, look!” You pointed at your faded handwriting, smiling brightly. You drew a heart near your previous message and wrote a new one. Happy 4 years to the one I love. “I don’t remember if you wrote one. I don’t think you did, did you?”

“I did write one. Honestly, I was completely head over heels for you when I first met you…So I wrote one in secret. Didn’t want to scare you away if you knew how much I cared about you.” Hyunjin blushed, looking away from you before searching the writing near the ceiling, pointing at the corner. I know it has to be you, so please let it be you. Underneath was a small cherry blossom, a symbol of when you first met Hyunjin.

“Speaking of cherry blossoms… It's time for me to show you your gift.” Taking him to the tall building, Hyunjin was confused, unsure of what you could be referring to.

“Oh my god. Did you buy this building?” He paled slightly, making you laugh.

“Why does everyone think I’m gonna buy a building?!” Shaking your head with a smile, you took him up to the studio, placing the key in his hand. “Happy anniversary, darling.” Hyunjin nervously unlocked the studio, gasping at the sight.

“A new studio? For me? This is your gift? Oh my god.” You flipped the lights on. The mural was fully revealed, nearly bringing your boyfriend to tears. “I…” He rushed to feel the wall, tracing the blossoms. “Cherry blossoms. When we first met…”

“This isn’t even the best part.” You grinned, relishing in how emotionally touched he was.

“There’s more?!” He nearly shrieked, trying to figure out the tricks you hid up your sleeves.

“Close your eyes.” Hyunjin hesitantly closed his eyes, anxious for the rest of your surprise. You turned off the lights, waiting for the paint to glow again. The low glow of the paint illuminated part of the room. “Open.”

Hyunjin stared, mouth agape at the glowing mural. Tearing up, he sniffled, coming to hug you tightly.“It’s beautiful. I love it so much. I… don’t even have the words to express how much I love this. It’s stunning…”

“Go grab the bag on the counter.” Hyunjin reluctantly peeled himself off you, sniffling as he grabbed the small bag off the counter. “Go ahead, turn it on.” Reaching inside, he revealed a UV light. He turned it on, waving it around. “No you goofball, point it at the wall.”Slowly but surely, the UV messages you spent writing all over the mural revealed themselves. Your boyfriend was full on sobbing, sitting by the wall, tracing your messages with his finger. Looking back at you with tears streaming down his face, he made grabby hands towards you, making you come over to him, hugging him and laughing.

“Don’t look at meee…” Hyunjin sniffled, wiping his face with his sweater sleeve as he read your messages aloud. “‘I expect my kisses in two weeks' time.’ ‘If you find this, I may or may not have used up all of your green paint.’” Hyunjin laughed, still crying as he buried his face in your shoulder. “I love you. I love you so much. I thought you bought me a whole entire building… Maybe I should do that. Buy you a building so we can paint every room, every wall, everything. I’m gonna paint the world for you.” Giggling, you wiped his tears, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

“Gonna paint my endless love for you.”

#underaverageheight #skz imagines #스트레이키즈 #skz fluff #skz #stray kids #hwang hyunjin #hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #skz hyunjin #hyunjin fluff #hwang hyunjin fluff #skz hwang hyunjin

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anamelessfool · 9 months ago

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Valentine's Day 1985

I wanted to feature some platonic/family Valentine's Day drabbles, since that's how I personally like the holiday. Primo and 8-year old Copia from my AU. I'm dedicating this one to @ghuleh-recs because they have have done so much for the community and inspired me to just go big.

I have three planned! Let's keep the love going! Ficlet/Drabble Below the cut!

It was nearly afternoon and Copia could not find Primo anywhere. Copia had been waiting for him back in their shared cell, art supplies in hand. Primo always woke earlier than everyone else, off to do some chore or other. On the other side of the cell was Primo’s bed, neatly made. Primo didn't collect much— just a few of Copia’s paper sculptures on his nightstand, a framed photo of his mother. His watch was there too, which meant he was out on a run. So that could be it. On bad days he would be out running for hours. Copia unfolded his carefully cut art project, scrutinizing the shapes and folds of the little dolls linking arms. He had hidden his craft supplies in a shoebox under his bed, doing his best to work in secret lest his brother discover his surprise.

“Down in the kitchen, maybe,” Copia said to his three rats in the nearby cage. It was cold and so they continued to nap in their pile of felt and fur. Copia got to his feet, tucking the card in his book and shoving the whole thing under his arm. After his little doorknob-tapping ritual (once for his rats, twice for bravery, three times for luck) he was out and en route to the dining hall.

“Came in from his jog,” recalled Sister Agatha as Copia found her in the dining hall. She gestured over to the spotless kitchen. “Then noticed the range needed cleaning.”

“And he was here?”

“Oh, about two hours too long,” chuckled Agatha. “Then he fixed that knocking going on in the fridge. Then back out the door. And that was that.” She shuffled over to a tinfoil-covered plate and pulled out a little something for the boy. A heart-shaped cookie, decorated with pink crystals of sugar. “Don't forget this on your way out, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you.” Copia inserted the cookie into his mouth, did a little hop and scurried out. Nothing else to fix, so Primo moved on to his most common little problem. Copia now knew exactly where Primo was.

As soon as Copia stepped out into the cold he heard the familiar thwack echo across the stone walls of the Ministry building. Primo was by the garden shed, adding to the already precariously tall woodpile one axe blow at a time.

Primo was an easygoing sort of person, an unflappable pillar of good natured-ness, but Copia had known his adoptive father-brother for so long that he could tell exactly what was on his mind. This sudden onset of busy-ness, the relentless puttering only meant one thing:

It was not going well with him and a paramour.

Primo noticed him and buried the axe head into the stump with an effortless toss. There was a haze of heated persperation wafting from his rough friar’s habit. He smiled, but his eyes felt far away. “Ah, sorry, you wanted to show me something, I forgot. Copia, where's your coat?”

Copia swallowed. “Um er…are you and…Brother Vincenzo…”

“Ah, Vinny?” Primo curbed a grimace. “I needed to be by myself for a while.”

Copia burned with embarrassment. “Sorry I um…I…”

“Too many differences,” said Primo plainly. “We're on good terms, though. Don't worry.” He settled in on the cement bench nearby, a thin unsteady smile on his face. “Didn't care too much for this holiday anyway. What you got there, mausi?”

Copia dropped the book in his lap, and Primo touched the title with his fingers, reading aloud slowly. “Paper…paper cutouts.”

“Yes, like this!” Copia pulled out the bundle of folded papers, expanding it wide in front of him with a grin. “Tah-dah!”

“Oh, wow!”

“It's for you. Em…Happy Valentine's Day. Sorry.”

“What you sorry about?”

Copia looked down at the frozen dirt, his face burning. He wanted so badly for Primo to be well. Primo did everything in his power to build a wall of normalcy around him, and as Copia grew he felt its presence more and more. It tugged at his heart knowing that he could do little to help. For a moment he doubted if he did his doorknob ritual before leaving for the day— he wouldn't feel this way if he did. He must have forgot. More embarrassment. More springs winding.

Primo gave a good-natured scoff. “It happens.” He reached out with a roughened hand and investigated the little chain of paper dolls. “Fine work here, mausi. Thank you. Happy Valentine's Day, Copia.”

“I wanted to teach you,” Copia replied, his voice growing strong as Primo’s praise bolstered his spirit.

“I'd love to learn,” Primo said, and he rose, creaking, to his feet. “And we need to get you inside. Bring a coat next time.” He gestured at Copia once more, and the boy held his hand. The semi-frozen ground crunched underfoot as they crossed the lawn. “Lunch first?”

Copia nodded. “Sister Agatha made cookies.”

“Paper cutouts,” Primo mused. They got to the door, and he let Copia in but not without a teasing ruffle of his hair. “So…is this why I kept seeing all those little pieces of white paper all over the carpets, huh?” Primo smirk. “Nihil stole a box of xerox paper for you?”

“He…said he'd put it back,” Copia muttered shyly.

My Fic List | "Scenes from the Void" Eldritch Horror AU

#i like how i can write whatever th f i want #young primo #young copia #papa emeritus i #papa emeritus iv #ghost band headcanons #domestic fluff

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ussgallifrey · 6 months ago

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(She Moves With) Shameless Wonder | 25

✦ Summary: Your badge clearly said SHIELD consultant, so you weren’t entirely sure where Fury was getting this whole make you an Avenger idea from. But you had a feeling it might have something to do with the recent discovery of an artifact at the bottom of the Arctic Sea.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Canon divergence, dialogue taken directly from Avengers: Age of Ultron, demisexuality on full display, language, mentions of minor character death, baby can you taste the foreshadowing in this chapter?

✦ Word Count: 5.2k

✦ Playlist: Here

✦ Cinematic Soundtrack: Here

[Master List]

Tony has absconded your rotary phone and secluded himself in the living room, calling numerous numbers on a list he keeps waving around in his hand as he paces back and forth. You watch him go, catching only a few words of his rapid-fire conversation before you move to join the others at the back of the house.

The three rooms at the rear of the home had once been an office, a ladies’ parlor, and a dining area. You had them all converted to be one large library. While the archways remained in place, separating the three areas, they looked nearly identical. Emerald wallpaper covered the tiny slivers of walls that weren’t obscured by the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

Clint is sitting on the chaise lounge with his legs kicked up over the powder blue fabric, his head dangles over the edge. Steve is respectfully listening along to whatever Bruce is working on. The doctor had found an old chalkboard of yours and was currently writing down several things with a small stub of white chalk.

Looking to your left, you see the assassin currently perusing the shelves in the first room - where your oldest items were held. While, ordinarily, you wouldn’t want anyone to be anywhere near those books and scrolls, you knew you could trust the redhead with the precious items.

Wordlessly, you slide past the archer.

Natasha is hunched slightly as she stares at a framed document on the wall.

“Wow, an MA from Cornell?”

Her eyes flicker up as you move to stand beside her. Crossing your arms, you stare at the old degree.

“Mhmm.”

“It’s a good forgery,” she comments. “Did you get Brandon or Nadia to do it?”

Back in your SHIELD agent days, those two were the best when it came to making forged documents: passports, ID cards, certificates, you name it.

But you merely shake your head, chuckling as you lean your weight down onto the edge of the small wooden desk, “No, that one’s legitimate.”

She’s silent for just a moment before she hums, “That makes sense.” And then she’s turning to look at you, snapping a ball of evergreen gum, “How many more you got hiding around here?”

“Oh,” you smile, easing up from your spot.

Crossing the room, you bend down to pick up a stack of frames, all lying on the carpet beside an olive-green velvet armchair. You flip through them, old memories pulling up to the surface as you view the degrees for the first time in a long while.

“I have nine here,” you say as you hand them over to Natasha, one by one. “University of Sydney, Art Institute of Chicago, Royal College of Arts, University of London, uh… Bedford - that was my first medical degree, Göttingen, Washington University.”

She smiles that secretive little smile of hers as she inspects each one. Holding up the last frame, she states, “This looks pretty old.”

You snort, “Near ancient really. That was… Cronus, 1794? They started allowing women into their lectures just a few years before that. Actually! My oldest one is from Bologna, in Italy. That was…1431?”

Her brows arch, “They gave women degrees in the 15th century?”

“13th. Professoressa Gozzadini was one of the first to graduate and teach at the university. I sat in for a few of her lectures, but law was never really my interest.”

She lets out a low whistle, “Look at you. Probably the most educated out of the group.”

With a shrug, you take back the frames - returning them to their rightful spot in a pile on the floor, “I’m not the one who went to MIT, I don’t have any degrees in engineering or mathematics. I certainly wouldn’t call myself the most educated.”

She reclines back on the desk across from you, “Why did you bother?”

“Pursuit of knowledge, mostly. And, back then, before a government-appointed forgery artist, you had to have an MA to be a museum curator. I mean, once I started working for SHIELD, I had a few made up just to give me access to other places. It tends to raise a few brows when you show up with a degree marked thirty years older than what you look, you know?”

Natasha offers you a gentle laugh.

“I imagine so.”

“So, even though I have fake degrees from Yale, and Harvard, and U of M, and Cambridge, I’ve only ever actually attended about ten universities?”

“More than me. The KGB didn’t really hand out degrees for… my training.”

Your smile fades as you watch the flicker of something distant dance in her green eyes.

While you had checked in on everyone earlier that afternoon, Natasha had been with Clint when you came in. He had assured you that they were both fine then and she had nodded in agreement. But you could tell, there was far more under the surface than she was willing to let see the light of day.

“You doing okay?” you ask, voice hesitant as you move closer to her.

She glances up, back down, and then up again, “Mhmm.”

“Hey,” you draw closer, enough to gently nudge her arm with your elbow. “It’s honestly no one's business, but… if you did want to talk to someone other than Barton about it… I mean, we’re the only two women here and I imagine, even though you guys are friends, it might be harder to talk about some of these things. I don’t know, I’m not great at the whole friend thing these days.”

She snorts, a smile playing on her lips as she looks over at you.

“You’re doing fine, Seven. And you know, me and Clint aren’t just friends. I can tell him pretty much anything and he’ll listen. Even if he’s got his aids out.”

There’s a nod of understanding as you breathe out, “Yeah, I guess you two have been through a lot together. Budapest and all that, right? Hard to shake a friend like that.”

Natasha pauses, dropping a hand to your wrist as she meets your eyes.

“We’re more than friends. I mean, don’t go… talking about it to everyone. But, wow, I thought we were a little more transparent?”

Your line of thinking pauses, resets, and starts moving again before you’re able to get any words out that sound even remotely coherent.

“Oh… you’re… together?”

She nods, offering a little humming sound.

“I did not know that.”

The redhead laughs, “Well, welcome to the party. Everyone else has been pretty… respectful about it actually.”

You shake your head, “No, I honestly had no idea. That whole… realm? That’s kind of beyond me.”

She blinks.

“Relationships?”

Looking toward the wall of shelves where medieval manuscripts and musty age-worn books reside, you take a steadying breath.

“Romantic relationships. Eros, if you will.”

She lets the words sit for a minute before she says anything further.

“I mean, I didn’t want to perpetuate the virgin goddess stereotype, but…”

“Hey,” you shove her arm. “I got enough of that kind of talk from Sharon. I don’t need you jumping into it too.”

“Carter?”

You hum in reply.

It may have only been a year since you last encountered the blonde agent. But your short time on Olympus with the humans had been cemented in your mind for some time now. You could recall the young woman’s words, her inquiries into your… past love life, or lack thereof.

Humans spoke so freely about that topic these days. But… that was not for you. And though you understood their curiosity when it came to you, they had to know that the way you existed was far different than the way they did when it came to love.

You knew the worlds of agápē and philia. Even storge, philuatia, and xenia. But eros… that had always remained far from your reach, slipping through your fingers like wispy mist. And that was just the way it was; the way it had always been.

The way it would likely remain.

“Hey.”

The two of you turn to see Clint resting in the doorway.

“Whatcha talking about?” he grins.

You and the redhead share a look before simultaneously replying:

“College.”

“Relationships.”

Your eyes seek out Natasha’s but she merely winks at you before returning her attention to the archer.

“Right…” he drawls, itching the back of his head for a moment before he continues, ”Stark says he can’t get through to Cho’s lab. He’s trying to get someone on Hill’s team to go look into it, but…” he ends with a vague shrug.

Feeling the pull of the previous conversation fall to the wayside, you blink, “She was working with regenerative tissues, right? Oh, that is so obvious I want to smack myself!”

“Okay?” Clint calls as you breeze past him into the central room of the library.

Steve stands from the lounge as soon as you walk in, moving to stand alongside Banner as you peer over his shoulder at the chalkboard.

“If I was looking to evolve, as an artificial intelligence, why would I need living tissue?”

Bruce nods, juggling the chalk between his hands, “Exactly what I was thinking. Vibranium is more than enough.”

“So, why would you want a humanesque body if you believe you are the superior life form?”

The others circle into the room as the two of you begin to brainstorm.

“Uhm… relatability? You know, a friendly face to the humans you’re trying to protect?”

You shake your head, “No, he’s artificial he can’t care about that. I’d say maybe he’s trying to circumvent the Laws of Robotics in some way, but that seems like a far fetch.”

Steve stands beside Bruce, tilting his head to look down at the current list of theories the doctor had written out.

“Would he be able to convert vibranium to be like a form of skin?” he wonders aloud.

You both let the idea simmer for a moment before reaching the same conclusion.

“Anything’s possible, I suppose,” Bruce admits, looking to you for a differing opinion.

With a nod, you add, “And if anyone could accomplish that, it would be Helen. Her work in the field is above anything else to date.”

“Bet she wouldn’t be doing it willingly,” Natasha points out as she browses through your literary collection.

The supersoldier lets out a breath, realization dawning, “That’s why he needed the scepter.”

“And a million distractions,” Clint huffs.

As the idea rests upon your consciousness, Tony finally makes an appearance. Surveying the gloomy atmosphere, he whistles.

“Wow, brainstorming without me. So… got in touch with my contacts at Nexus. Looks like we were right, someone’s been scrambling the launch codes. Faster than Ultron can figure them out, I might add.”

Natasha perks up, “We have an ally?”

You offer her a look, “Ultron has an enemy. We can’t assume that’s the same thing as an ally. All things considered.”

Your eyes land on Steve and he seems to give a small nod, agreeing with your sentiment.

“So,” Tony begins. “I think I want to head to Oslo, see what’s what.”

Steve crosses his arms, “And Dr. Cho?”

“I think we can safely assume we dropped the ball there as well,” the billionaire gestures a small explosion with his hands.

The supersoldier’s eyes harden.

“We’re not abandoning her.”

“Is that what I said?” Tony clips, squinting at Steve as he moves to cross the room.

Natasha knocks her head back against the bookshelves, “What happened to not splitting up?”

Tony turns to look at her, “What are we? The Mystery Gang? Zoinks, Scoob, let’s go fetch the metal man.”

“Hey, look,” Clint moves to stand between the two men. “No offense, but as someone who’s been on the other side of that damn scepter, I wish I had someone running to come undo it.”

Beside you, Bruce tugs off his glasses and gives a slight sigh.

Observing the room, watching the team begin to tear themselves apart once again in the span of a single evening, you finally step forward.

“If you - ” you address Tony, “ - head to Oslo and track down this entity or person or whatever, the rest of us can go to Helen and figure out what exactly Ultron might have needed from her.”

“Or, we can trust that Hill and her agents have it in hand and we figure out where the bastard is hiding out,” Tony suggests with a knowing smile.

Before you can even ask why he would consider that option, your landline begins ringing its shrill bell tone. You stare at the billionaire for a moment more before you push your way out of the room to answer the call.

“Hello?” you ask into the receiver.

“It’s Hill,” comes the instant reply. “Stark was right. I’ve got people at the labs right now and she’s still coming out of it. It sounds like Ultron made out with something of hers - hell if I know what, right now. Give me some time and we’ll get an answer out of her. She’s… pretty shaken.”

“But unharmed?” you question, glancing back as you notice someone coming down the hall.

“Luckily, yes.”

There’s a beat of silent static, but you sense there is something more she wants to say.

“What is it?”

“We… uhm, we intercepted an image before it was broadcast to every major news network.”

Tony’s, surprisingly, the one standing beside you. His eyes are wide and imploring, but you merely wave your hand at him.

“What was the picture?”

“Strucker. Dead.”

“His usefulness ran out,” you surmise.

“Pretty graphic stuff, honestly. But we’re keeping it from the airways for now, so.”

It made sense, of course. For the perfect peacekeeper to remove a threat once it was no longer helpful to him.

“Any idea on the location?”

“Funny you should ask,” she says. “It was taken in the mutants’ cells, back at his hideout.”

Now that, was interesting.

“Okay,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead as you glance back over at the billionaire. “Well, I’m going to hand you back to Tony before he forcefully rips this out of my hand.”

Before you can even hear her reply, Tony does in fact take the receiver out of your hand.

“Talk to me,” he says, offering you a wink as you shake your head before he dips into the living room to continue the call.

When you walk back to the library where the others are still conversing, Steve looks toward you with a questioning look.

“Well, I hate to say it,” you huff. “But Stark was right. She’s in good hands right now and yes, she’ll be fine. We might have a location though, for Ultron.”

Bruce’s eyes brighten as he looks over at you, “Where?”

You offer them all a tight smile.

“Sokovia.”

The house is bathed in the hushed tones of evening. The halls are painted with the cool hues of starlight and the feint ambiance of a lone lamp in the library.

After Maria’s revelation, the team had a quick conversation before it was admitted that they would need at least a few hours of sleep before anyone was in any condition to go anywhere near a robot hell-bent on your collective destruction. So, you bid goodnight to Clint and Natasha - now understanding why the two were sharing a room. As well as Bruce, who was guided up to a room on the third floor.

Tony was determined to head to Oslo as soon as humanly possible. He had taken his suit and decided to fly to the internet hub after his last call with Hill.

That only left…

“Are you just incapable of sleeping?” you ponder as you lean against the wooden archway of the library’s main entrance.

Steve blinks up at you before offering a tired smile, “To be fair, I’m not sure if I could sleep even if I wanted to right now.”

He’s sitting on the blue lounge with a book in his lap. A black-bound story with lettering so faded on the cover you’re not immediately sure which book it is. You take a few steps into the room before you drop down beside him on the chaise.

“From fear of our possible demise or… from that vision?” you ask, tone soft as you begin to tread difficult waters.

The supersoldier’s mouth gapes before he snaps the book closed.

Ah, Treasure Island.

“Little of both?” he answers honestly.

You give him a nod before taking a breath for yourself.

“Do you, uhm, want to talk… about it?”

He looks at you before he drops his gaze to his hands. His silence makes you think you’ve waded out too far into the unknown, but after another stretch of quiet, he says:

“I saw my Ma, actually.”

“Really?”

With a nod, he places the book on the end table beside the lounge. Leaning against the back of the chaise, he entwines his hands into a fist in between his legs. His eyes are locked on the ceiling.

“Everything before that was… hell,” at that, he glances over at you, before almost immediately pulling his gaze away. “And then… I saw her. She looked just like she did before…” he gives a sigh.

“It didn’t feel like the beginning of the vision. That felt like I was completely at the mercy of the nightmare. This part, with her, it was… I don’t know, different.”

Your hand finds purchase on his right forearm, silently imploring him to continue.

“She verbally snapped me out of it, I guess you could say.”

“Must be one powerful woman,” you comment with a small smile.

Steve’s left hand rests comfortably over your own, his thumb rubs at the area just above your wrist. You find yourself leaning into his side, your head coming to rest on his shoulder.

“She was.”

And then, he gives a warm chuckle.

“She, uh, actually used to read me this,” his hand lifts from yours to gently pat the book on the table beside him.

“Oh, such a classic,” you smile.

You can feel him nod, “Honestly got me thinking I was going to grow up to be a pirate one day.”

Pulling back, you fix him with an incredulous expression, “You? Seriously?”

He grins, “What, can’t see it?”

“The rule-breaking and lawlessness? Oh, absolutely. Pillaging and treasure-taking, not so much. You don’t seem the type.”

Steve gives a low-belly laugh.

“I’ll concede to that.”

“Though, now that I think about it,” you pull away just to appraise him. “Captain Rogers does have a certain ring to it if we’re dealing in the realm of piracy.”

He shakes his head, looking down at the book for a long, quiet moment.

“God,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve read this since I was a kid, actually.”

“You want it?”

His head whips back to look at you, an immediate shake of dismissal, “Nah. No, Athena, it’s yours. And it looks, truth be told, older than even me.”

“Well, that’s not much, considering,” you schmooze.

Pushing up from the chaise lounge, you swipe up the book for yourself. The raised leather feels familiar in your hand as you trace your index finger over the embossed green letters.

“It’s a signed copy, you know.”

You flip open the front cover to reveal the signature.

He blinks.

“You’re shitting me.”

“No,” you laugh, collapsing back on the lounge next to him with your legs tucked in under you. Shoving the book in his direction, you point to the dedication.

To Minnie, Wishing you a wonderful adventure. - Robert Louis Stevenson

“I was his nurse for about three months in 1884. Real sweet guy once you got him relaxed and comfortable. I think I have his copy of Jekyll and Hyde around here somewhere…”

Steve’s still staring at the words written in ink, so you carefully deposit the book into his lap. You lean back onto the opposite end of the lounge, waiting for him to say something.

“Minnie?” is the only thing that comes out of his mouth, however.

“Oh, yeah. That.” Rubbing at your arm, you look toward the shelf of books across from you. “Athena’s not too common of a name for most of history. I ended up going by the name the Romans gave me: Minerva. Minerva Polias; Minnie, for short.”

He nods, still a little transfixed.

“Do you still go by that, or…?”

You drop a hand on his arm and he immediately turns his attention toward you with wide blue eyes.

“Steve. Please. Never call me Minnie. I gave you my real name three years ago with the intention that you would use it. There’s no need for aliases between friends.”

He lets out a small breath as a sweet smile comes to his lips.

“Good,” he settles on. “Almost had me worried for a minute there.”

“Hey,” you bump his shoulder with your own. “Can I convince you to try and get some sleep? It’s almost two in the morning and I’d like you to be in top condition if you’re throwing that shield around tomorrow. Don’t need to have you taking off Clint’s head.”

“I wouldn’t - ” he starts to say, but the look on your face settles him. “Okay, fine. You too though.”

“Me too what?” you question with a tilt of your head.

“Sleep. You have to sleep sometime, I’m sure of it.”

With a shrug, you stand from the couch and offer him your hands, “If it’ll get you to try, I’ll do it.”

Steve chuckles, setting the book back down on the table before he pulls the drawstring on the lamp, pulling you both down into the heavy darkness of night.

“Guess it’ll have to,” he says, voice low as the embers of light fade away.

His hands slip into yours and you don’t really have to pull him up, but he allows your fingers to stay entwined all the same. Up the stairs you go, walking slowly to avoid the creaking steps, a hand still held in his.

On the third floor, you can hear the very gentle breaths of Bruce’s snoring from down the hallway. In the sliver of moonlight drifting through the stairwell’s window, you can make out Steve’s features. They’re chiseled like Grecian marble, his eyes are ablaze with the lonely dots of shimmering starlight.

You stop outside of his room, your hand slipping free from his hold.

“It’s a deal then?” you ask in a hushed tone. “You’ll try and sleep if I do the same?”

He nods as he looks down at you. His hands are shoved into his jean pockets.

“Can’t make any promises,” he admits with something somber in his words.

Unable to help yourself, you reach out your hand to cup his cheek. His skin is warm under your touch and you can feel him dip his head down into your palm. Dark eyelashes flutter closed.

You offer the supersoldier a sad smile.

With everything that had happened today and everything that was still to come, it would surprise you if Steve was able to even drift into a light sleep, let alone keep his thoughts at bay long enough to fall asleep.

You’re a little surprised when the man in front of you turns his head ever so slightly. His lips gently press against your open palm before his eyes blink open to look down at your surprised face.

“Get some sleep, Rogers,” you murmur, letting your hand drift back to your side, feeling a ball of tension building in your stomach. “I’m just across the hall.”

His eyes lift from your face to peer at the door directly behind you. A small smile appears on his lips.

Without another word, but several long looks, Steve goes into his guest room and you move across the hall to the room you had long ago claimed as yours. Your door clicks closed first, followed a moment later by the sound of his.

You do not sleep that night.

Your mind is a labyrinth of thoughts, and plans, and ideas that may or may not come to pass. Working through imaginary strategies well into the morning light. You do not feel the draw of exhaustion that you imagine your mortal friends do.

So, as the glimmer of orange and magenta light drifts over the horizon, you take hold of your pendant - still resting comfortably, if not heavily, against your bosom. You offer a silent prayer to whoever wishes to listen before you begin gathering your things.

Coffee is running in the pot for the others, though you have no real food to offer them. You knew Clint and Steve kept a well-stocked snack pouch in their go-bags; mostly granola bars and the like. But it would have to be enough for today.

The others emerge at their own pace, starting with Bruce and then Natasha. Followed by Clint and eventually Steve. The plan had been made the night before, when all six of you were still present, that no matter what, the five of you would leave on the quinjet this morning - regardless if Tony got into contact or not.

Which, he did, sometime just around 6:30.

“I found our ally. Had to pick up the pieces and reassemble him back together.”

“JARVIS?” someone had asked.

“He didn’t even know he was in there, that he was fighting back Ultron. He was still following protocols from within.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Still working on that,” he had said.

After placing the last coffee mug onto the drying rack, you take one final look around the house. It would be some time until you returned, you were sure of it.

Pallas is perched on the porch rails when you finally close the front door.

“Hey,” you coo with a soft sigh. “It’s gonna be a while till we see each other. I want you to head back home and stay there. Where we’re going is going be no place for you, bud.”

He bites your finger for good measure before he ruffles out his feathers and soars up into the early morning sky. Celestial blue starlight drifts behind him like a fluttering veil before he pops out of existence.

Steve’s waiting for you at the ramp, already dressed in his uniform - free of his helmet and shield for the time being.

“Once we’re twenty miles clear, we’ll open up the channels again,” Clint says, already behind the controls.

Tony had said there was a bag full of intel that Hill was waiting to tell you all. Settling into the seats behind Clint, you watch as the house grows smaller and smaller, and eventually, gives way to a projection of a forest canopy. And then you’re zipping across the landscape, ascending into the cloud coverage.

Only ten minutes out and they get their call from Hill. Steve watches as you begin to pace the length of the jet.

Right now, you were still down two players. Tony was wrapping things up in Oslo and Thor was still… nowhere to be found.

The public’s understanding of the entire situation was about as bad as it could be. Marking the team as the true villains of the day with endless coverage looping clips of the Hulk destroying Johannesburg and the two Gods going blow to blow in a debris-ridden New York street.

There were countless interviews with eyewitnesses and civilians who had been in the crossfire who praised the help they received from the Ultron bots. There was no mention of you or Sam in London, or Tony’s efforts to aid the people in South Africa.

For all the world knew right now, Ultron was their promised savior.

“What else?” you had asked, voice clipped as your head lay heavy in your palm.

Hill reported CCTV footage of the mutants in multiple locations across Sokovia’s capital city - seemingly hiding in alleyways and shadowy areas. As if trying to avoid detection.

“They flip sides?” Clint had questioned with a note of hope in his voice.

“Unknown,” was all Maria could offer you.

At least they had an answer for what Ultron had been seeking from Dr. Cho. For better or worse.

“A living body?”

“Well, that’s fucking terrifying.”

While they had been split across two continents, fighting mindless battles, Ultron had entered South Korea, otherwise undetected. He had used the scepter on not only Helen Cho but her entire team. Her precious cradle had been corrupted for his nefarious means.

She reported that the mutants, Pietro and Wanda she recalled, had left quite suddenly. And that it had been the girl who released Helen from her forced state. Ultron had escaped with the cradle right after. Helen and her team had been left completely unharmed.

As they crossed the Atlantic, only more questions lay heavy in the air. Multiple unknowns for what they might be walking into. While everyone appeared for all the world to be ready to face whatever lay ahead, Steve knew that appearances could be deceiving.

Just getting the wings fixed, Sam had texted him. Give me some coordinates and I’ll be there.

Steve had shown you the message, noticing a look of relief drifting across your features. He had almost forgotten how close of a call it had been at the Tower, thanks to everything else going on at the time. Between his own nightmarish memories and his need to get you and the God of Thunder away from each other before the city was destroyed any further.

“Only the Abomination could destroy something made out of Adamantine,” you had said with a slight shake of your head.

But as they draw closer to the country, Steve can feel the physical tension hanging in the air. So, when Clint calls out an ETA, the supersoldier stands up to address the team. If not to quell the anxiety in them, then perhaps to help with his own.

“Ultron likely knows we’re coming,” he starts, letting his hand fall onto the back of your chair. “Odds are we’ll be riding into heavy fire. And that’s what we signed up for. But the people of Sokovia, they didn’t. So, our priority is getting them out. We find the cradle and we clear the field. Keep the fight between us.”

He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“Ultron… he thinks we’re monsters. That we’re what’s wrong with the world. It’s not just about beating him. It’s about whether he’s right.”

His eyes drift over to your face.

They all had been rattled by Bruce’s confession last night. And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying part of it all. He completely understood where the doctor was coming from. They were a rag-tail group of people from supremely different backgrounds who were supposed to be the elite protective force for the entire Earth.

And yet, there they were arguing over dinner, in a helicarrier with a scepter three feet away, in the middle of Manhattan.

Steve wouldn’t deny the fact that the team wasn’t perfect.

But the fact that Ultron propped himself up as the better option. An inhuman supercomputer who could decide the fate of everyone on the planet. No, even with all their imperfections, the Avengers Initiative was the best - the only - true option out there.

You nod, darkened eyes meeting Steve’s. And then a smile twitches at the corner of your lips.

“I’m still not ghostwriting your speeches,” you mouth.

Steve looks down with a chuckle before he grips your shoulder. Staring out the window, he watches as the distant stretch of land peeks past the waves of rolling blue ocean.

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#steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel fan fic #series: shameless wonder #my fic

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