#file under: faces: stan

[knotfodder]

name: Stanley Pines nicknames: Stan dob. age: June 15 (25-45) gender: Male pronouns: (he/him/his) secondary gender: Omega occupation: entrepreneur species: human (unless..?) younger fc: Tyler Hoechlin older fc: Jeffrey Dean Morgan

+resourceful, clever, street smart+ -greedy, self-serving, impulsive-

[wendichester]

⋆˙⟡ fbi, open up!

summary. the fbi shows up at your door. these agents are a little... unconventional.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x civil!reader genre. idek. just weird

wordcount. 736

notes / warnings. trauma and early seasons typical dean winchester flirting. beware.

You don’t even get the door halfway open before a badge flashes in your face.

“FBI,” the taller one says, all business. He’s got that too-handsome-to-trust kind of face—sharp jaw, kind eyes, hair that’s one shake away from a shampoo commercial.

The other one’s already sizing you up, less polite about it. His badge lowers slower. “Agent Bonham,” he adds, smirking. “This is my partner, Agent Allman.”

You blink. “Like... the Allman Brothers?”

Agent Bonham—clearly the cockier one—winks. “Big fans.”

You lean on the doorframe, still in your pajamas, coffee half-made in the kitchen, murder still raw in your mind. “Right. The FBI’s really sending classic rock stans door to door now?”

Agent Allman—Sam, according to the badge he flashed—gives his partner a look. You file it away as interesting, not incriminating. Yet.

“We just need to ask a few questions,” Sam says, voice calm, like he’s afraid you might bolt. He’s not wrong.

You step aside. “If it gets you out of the hallway before Mrs. Crenshaw across the hall calls the HOA about ‘suspicious men,’ go for it.”

They walk in. Dean—aka Agent Bonham, which you're almost 100% sure is under a fake name—starts nosing around like he owns the place. Sam stays close to the door, watching you like he’s already piecing you together.

“I already talked to the cops,” you say, flopping onto the couch. “Said everything I knew.”

“Humor us,” Sam replies. And the way he says it... it doesn’t sound like protocol. It sounds like concern. Or curiosity. Or both.

You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Fine. My boss—Greg—was a nightmare. Walked around like he was untouchable. Screamed at interns, made everyone miserable. So yeah, not exactly mourning him.”

Dean raises a brow. “So you don’t miss him.”

“About as much as I miss dial-up internet.”

He snorts. Sam’s lips twitch but don’t crack a smile.

“But,” you add, voice dropping as the memory crawls its way back to the front of your mind, “what I saw... it wasn’t right.”

Dean straightens a little. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you say slowly, as if saying it out loud makes it sound crazier, “I saw something pull him out of his office. Something tall. Human-shaped. But the sounds it made—”

You pause, trying to find the words that don’t make you sound insane. “They weren’t normal.”

Sam leans in, eyes soft. “What kind of sounds?”

“Like... clicking. Bones snapping. Wet breathing. Like a person with a broken rib cage trying to growl.” You shiver. “It didn’t talk. Not exactly. But it wasn’t quiet either.”

The agents exchange a look. Quick. Subtle. But definitely something.

You catch it. Your stomach knots. “You’ve heard that before?”

Dean’s mouth opens, then closes again. Sam gives you a careful shrug. “We’ve heard a lot of things.”

“Okay, well, I’m not saying it was some... demon monster whatever, alright? I’m just saying... it was weird. And I’m still trying to convince myself it had a really bad cold and I was in shock. That’s all.”

Dean gives a low whistle. “That’s some shock.”

“You weren’t there,” you shoot back.

There’s a silence. Not awkward. Just loaded.

Then Dean, ever the charmer, drops onto the arm of the couch. “So, you got a boyfriend who can vouch for you that night? Alibis are stronger when they come from someone who doesn’t sleep in your succulent shelf.”

You raise a brow. “That’s your opener? Really?”

Sam coughs. You glance at him, and he looks away—but not fast enough to hide the smirk threatening his lips.

You point between them. “Do all FBI agents flirt with witnesses?”

“Only the hot ones,” Dean says, deadpan.

Sam mutters, “Unbelievable.”

You laugh—finally. The sound feels foreign in your throat, like it doesn’t quite belong yet. But it’s there.

Dean winks. “Hey, if you remember anything else, call us. Day or night. Especially night.”

You snort. “That sounded less FBI, more Tinder.”

But when Sam hands you the card, his fingers brush yours. Just a little. Just enough.

He doesn’t say much, but the look he gives you? It sticks.

And you? You’re still not convinced the thing you saw was real. Still clinging to logic. But something about them feels just as strange.

You watch them go, heart racing a little faster than you’d like.

You want to believe it’s just adrenaline.

But part of you—small, scared, stubborn—knows better.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[darlingdaisyfarm]

IDEA: STAN/FORD MEETING THE READERS PARENTS THAT LIVE OUT OF STATE AND DIDNT EXPECT THEM TO BE OLD🙏🏾

PLS POOKIE I NEEE THIS!!!

-🥮 anon

OH MY GOD THIS IS SUCH A GOOD IDEA I LOVE ITTTTT!!!! bless ur brain 🥮 anon <33 i also relate to this so hard so some phrases here will be ones my mom always tells me ahhahshd

STANLEY

you send them message “hey i’m coming home for a visit ! and bringing my partner :)” and they’re all excited. Stan is also nervous, he just won’t say it straight. you’ll catch him fidgeting with his ring, wiping his palms on his pants before walking up the driveway and, as always, he makes some dumb joke.

Stan knows parents are gonna be weird about the age gap, he’s not an idiot. they’ve been probably picturing some guy your age. maybe someone you went to college with? or met at work / or off an app. what if they even pictured someone slightly younger, god help you. some guy with a baby face, whatever. just someone age-appropriate

but yes instead its STANLEY PINES. and your parents just go silent

your mom pulls you aside immediately and hits you with the classics “hun are you gonna chew his food for him next? he’s old enough to be your uncle’s roommate from the army!”

poor Stan, he tries, he really does. he even wears his best shirt and brings a bottle of cheap wine and some weird local honey he insists is good for the joints, because ALL old men say this phrase. he's trying to be POLITE TOO, he doesn’t swear which is very valuable because Stan can't live a day without swearing. he only stops himself for something truly important. for Mabel and Dipper, or in this case, your parents

Stan, meanwhile, is in the living room where he finds your dad’s tool box and suddenly they’re talking about gasket heads and brake pads like they’ve known each other since high school. he makes himself useful, fixes the wobbly chair without being asked. shows your little cousins / siblings how to do a coin trick AWW.

your mom is still suspicious and at some point she leans in, and says quietly “be honest this about the pension?”

and it’s so stupid because you know she’s half-joking but not really. you know she’s trying to make sense of it all, desperately trying to file this under quirky youthful mistake or weird phase, and meanwhile Stan is trying to talk about how proud he is of you, how smart and kind and beautiful you are, how you deserve the world and how lucky he is that you gave him the time of day, and you just wanna scream like SEE? SEE? this is what i mean. hes my person mom

but that's the irony cuz when Stan doesn’t try so hard to impress them with his good manners and starts talking about how he rebuilt the shack from the ground up, how he ran it for years, how he taught himself to fix plumbing, do taxes, he also shares with your dad a special recipe for grilling meat and how to make a great steak so your dad starts to warm up a little, there’s a glint of respect. they start bonding over car repairs or some dumb film they both watched in the 80s, and your mom still looks at you like you’ve lost your mind but at least she laughed at Stan's dad jokes.

“so yeah i may not have gone to college but i took care of two kids for a whole summer and they turned out alright” Stanley says it with such gruff fondness that makes even your mom pause a second.

and because he is good at reading people, he’ll look her in the eye and say,i “i know i’m not the person you pictured your kid bringing home. hell, i wouldn’t have pictured me either. but uhh, i love them, and i’m gonna treat them right, and they make me wanna be better. that count for anything?”

your mom will blink a few times and then mutter “you better” and later Stan asks if he can take leftovers home and your mom is so shocked she says yes LMAO

he ends up helping your dad clean the garage and they spend two hours in there talking about boats, cars, football, tax evasion

...

while you’re driving to your parents house you literally have to hold Ford's hand and go “okay. please. PLEASE do not start talking about interdimensional travel. i know it’s important to you sweetheart. but please don’t say anything about portals or non-linear time. please. not even once.”

“yes. of course. i understand.”

so when FORD finally meets your parents OF COURSE he will try to behave as politely as possible. “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you!” he says only to receive “why is the professor from back to the future holding my kid's hand.”

you know your mom is gonna hit you with it the second she corners you in the kitchen. “does he even hear well? what if you want children? you want to be changing his diapers while you’re pushing a stroller?” while you're trying to prove to her that, BUT, mom, he can't look THAT old, enough!

but yeah then like twenty minutes later your dad asks “so how old are you, mr. . . uh, mr Pines?” he is still wondering whether he should call him “doc”

and Ford just says, clear as day

“sixty, chronologically. though that doesn’t account for the three decades i spent traveling through alternate dimensions.” and that awkward smile.

and you just. want to die because your mom stares at you with grimace of pure panic. and you know her, she probably thinks you’ve been brainwashed into dating a dusty cult prophet. she pulls you aside, wide eyed “what does that mean? does he think he’s an alien? do i need to call someone? tell me right now this isn’t like that show where the girl marries a mummy!!”

Ford meanwhile is just casually describing how his lab collapsed into a rift in space-time and how he once got possessed by a dream demon. my boy doesn’t mean to be weird, trust, he’s just never learned the art of small talk :( he’s also in his stiff nervous mode where he can’t stop adjusting his tie. yes, you made him wear smth very decent for your first meeting. and also take a shower

BUT. once the shock about his age wears off, your parents start to realize that Ford is actually. . . kind of elegant? i mean, he compliments the books on their shelf and your mom's earrings. he’s polite, he says “thank you” and “please” and “may i?” + he clears the dishes. and this is probably the dream of every parent. + he remembers things they mention in conversation and brings them up later.

and ofc Ford says the most devastatingly romantic things about you without even trying. “theyre the most brilliant mind ive encountered in this dimension, and i don’t say that lightly.”

your mom will scoff, sure, but then it turns out Ford knows how to cook. and he’s like, very specific about it. he asks your mom about the spices she used and offers to help slice onions and does it correctly, perfectly even. offers her an actual trick for keeping tears at bay while doing it. she’s still suspicious, but when he compliments her dish, yeah. . . she corners you later again and says, “he’s strange and old, too old for you. but not stupid.“

aaand as a nice bonus Ford accidentally helps your little cousin / sibling with a science project by drawing a whole labeled diagram of a magnetic field so your cousin gets an A+!!

[voidofthevoidmv]

HELP! Our Sitters are TIME TRAVELERS!!!

(A gravity falls time travel fanfiction teaser)

Prologue/teaser ⬇️⬇️⬇️

Time log- 11:05 pm filed:

LOCATION: Barranquilla, Colombia

DATE: 1970-something

STATUS: SECURE

Progressing as scheduled…

It’s a quiet night down here in Colombia, at least it was for a great many of residents. Truly, it would've been described as a peaceful moment. The sky was filled with more stars to count, and the atmosphere was a deep shade of purple which coated everything in a soft nightlike shade. The air was warm too, not too hot nor too cold. A perfect night really, for the majority folks that is.

For some, not so much- Which was something of a newfound reality concerning a certain person in particular. Hidden behind the depths of dark alleys, past the crowded streets and through the celebratory storefronts- Stood a bright red convertible half covered in tarp alongside a man-soaked head to toe in water. The front of his shirt was stained rusty red, as well as any area around his face really, and the only truly accurate word to describe him would be ‘Shaken.’

His nose was especially rosy as if he’d been drinking or at least somewhat inebriated, and not one single part of him seemed dry to touch. His ratty brown hair was long behind his ears and curled a bit from the moisture and overall painted a picture. It was clear that something terrible had happened, if the shifty eyes glancing about and the incessantly trembling limbs didn’t speak volumes in that of itself.

Unlike most people on this warm Colombian night, Stanley Pines was not having a good time.

He could be seen reaching a still shaky hand towards his jean pocket, pulling out an object and a small pack of still dripping cigarettes.

“Damn lighter... Just needa’ smoke...” Stanley hissed to himself as he fumbled with the small copper device again, his burlesque fingers swiping fruitlessly as sparks fly without a flicker of a flame in sight.

He keeps doing this, growling under his breath as the beginnings of frustration start to show on his face. It makes him seem almost ghostly, the scowl making the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than before.

A soggy cigarette in his mouth and stuck between his teeth as he flicked the rusted lighter continuously.

“Cmon… Cmon… Just one more time, just one more…”

This time, he succeeds and much like the small pathetic flame of the device, Stan’s entire disposition brightens.

“Yes! Yes, haha!” He cheered almost manically, his raspy voice spitting out a guffaw as he pumped a fist in the air. Suddenly, his face softened a bit, raising the flame to the small cigarette pinched between the corner of his mouth. With some amount of effort, he managed to light the tip of the cigarette. He exhaled a puff of smoke and leaned even more so on his beloved red convertible.

“I guess one good thing did happen today, huh?” He chuckled again, it was a wry one and had notes of bitterness but a chuckle, nonetheless.

“Alls’ I had to do was get locked in the trunk of a car and chew my way out. Guess I was lucky to nab that guys pack of cigs before he locked the thing… Bet he’s wondering where this baby went, hah…”

After taking another inhale of the cigarette, he held it in a moment before exhaling with wide eyes, pushing himself off the car to bark out a full-fledged laugh. He then rattled his fist to the air with a giant smile on his face- Revealing a mouth clearly torn to shreds and his teeth were bloodied and chipped.

“Hear that, universe!!!??? STANLEY PINES LIVES TO SMOKE ANOTHER DAY!! HAH HAH HAH!” He then made a few rather... Rude gestures towards the sky, presumably to the ‘universe’ specifically.

After a few seconds, the manic episode passes and it's just him and the sounds of night in that back alley. Every now and then he would raise that soggy cancer stick to suck in another breath of smoke and exhale, though it was bringing to get droopy in his fingers. In the dim light of a single streetlamp, it too was a seemingly peaceful scene. Which was really no good for Stan, for it’s always when he has time to himself that he starts to really THINK about things, things that depress him.

Smile long wiped from his face, he dragged a hand across his cheek as his expression shifts that into a frown. In a split second, he looked so awfully tired.

Things really couldn't get any worse than this... Could it?

CLITTER CLATTER!!!

Suddenly, Stan is snapped out of his negative thoughts to the sound of something making a real racket in the nearby alleyway, just across from himself.

“What the-” Startled, he sort of fumbles with his soggy cigarette a few moments with eyes blown wide. That was the issue with being on the run all the time, even the smallest things could have you on the same kind of edge as if it’s life or death.

For instance, that clatter noise was probably a cat or something.

CLATTER! CLITTER CLATTER! CLATTER!

... Of course, that didn't stop him from investigating though. On any other ordinary day on the run, Stan would do well to keep his nose out of trouble, however he was feeling risky. After all, it wouldn't be fair to throw him into another life-or-death situation after the last one- Just the universal law of ‘wait a sec’ honestly.

Why, if something bad were to happen to him now- Why, something would be seriously wrong with the balance of the universe. Or something. Probably.

-And so, with eyes squinting inquisitively, he tossed his cigarette aside and began towards the alleyway. Walking slowly as to not startle whatever it was in the alleyway, he left the dim light if the streetlamp and crossed the boundary of shadow inside of the alleyway. It was like stepping into a whole differently painted room, whereas the first room you were in had white walls and this new room had black walls with the curtains drawn. Not only that, but the alley was incredibly stinky. Stan would feel real bad for anyone who got jumped or something here- Because in their last moments they’d likely be wondering who shat their pants. The clattering noise sounded again, making him only slightly flinch again.

CLATTER! CLATTER!

Sounded almost... Metallic. Like somebody was kicking a piece of shrapnel around. He knows the sound, he used to do it with... It reminded him of Ford in a way. Back when they were just kids, stupid, oblivious, happy kids...

Before... Before he-

“Focus Stan... Stop being weird about things...”

Eyes finally adjusting to the darkness that encompassed the grimy alleyway, Stan could now see the true culprit behind the tinny sound being kicked around.

It was a tin can...

“Well, waddea’ know...”

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin all over again when the can jerked towards him- And a bright light flashed.

“Woah!!!”

...A tin can that was somehow moving on its own.

Stan began towards the thing as it jerked across the dirt ground, moving in such a way it seemed almost like somebody tied a string to it and was just tugging it all around to mess with him. But it also sparked a few times, which made it seem like maybe there was a firecracker wedged in the can or something.

It took him a few times, but pretty soon he had the cylindrical object cornered.

“Gotcha!”

Ok, so sue him, he was just a little curious...

...Ford wasn't the only curious one, you know?

He reached out to grab the little can, his hand making contact to its smooth surface and he noted that it was cool to the touch. Not a firecracker. No firepower at all, which was super weird.

Was it just Stan, or did everything suddenly get REALLY quiet?

In the eerie silence however, he hears something coming from inside the can- Which believe it or not, begins to tremble in his hands. It's really moving on its own- It's not just Stan shaking or anything...

Kssssshhhhh....

The strange noise from inside the can sounds like it's getting louder, despite the homeless man clearly seeing absolutely nothing from within when he peered inside the empty old can. It was freaky, but he was morbidly curious. Plus, it was getting to the point that he had to hold the can with both hands to keep it from literally squirming out of his hands- It would probably go bouncing off the freaking walls if Stan hadn't been holding it.

It was the kind of noise that made your head ache a little bit, what, was it called again? Teni- Tenino? Tentitus? The thing with the ringing in your ears, Tinnitus? Stan figured it was a similar thing.

KsssssssSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

In an instant, the sound from within the can gets awfully loud- Almost like a train whistling as it comes barreling at you at full speed- And Stan had enough sense to pull his face away from its opening to visibly cringe at the sound. Whatever remained of his teeth was bit into a sharp grimace and he was overcome with a terribly strong sense of WRONG.

“What the fu-”

Suddenly, a stream of color bursts forth from the can- Interrupting Stan and causing the con-man to yelp and drop the can whilst backing away. For what had somehow emerged from within- Because yes, something HAD emerged from that dumb old can- Was some kind of impossibly large serpentine worm thing, with a gaping mouth and a rainbow of stripes painting its multicolored back.

It almost seemed to sap all the vibrancy of everything around it, glitching in a way that made it seem out of place- Or at least as out of place a ginormous man eating worm that just emerged from a tiny can could be.

“What the what the what the-” For the first time in a long time, Stanley Pines was at a loss for words.

He didn't even get a chance to fully get back on his feet- (Which confuses him greatly because how he managed to fall to the ground in only few short minutes is beyond the point.)

He scrambled to a standing position- Trying not to gape as the worm thing- That could FLOAT apparently- Began to coil in midair and loomed above him. From this angle, Stan could get a really go view of its giant mouth- And if he’s being honest- it didn't exactly look like the sort of thing he wanted to be on the business end of.

Millions upon millions of sharp needle-like teeth line its outer mouth, and the inside going down its throat looked to quite literally be a STATIC ABYSS.

“No no no nope no-” His feet finally put themselves to good use and he made a break for the alleyway entrance.

This seemed to trigger the beast to action.

There was a screeching noise, and Stan could feel his heart drop to his stomach white the strange incomprehensible creature let loose an unholy noise and readied itself to lunge. Yet, for some reason, Stan couldn't help but feel he wasn't running fast enough-

Time seemed to go in slow motion now as the creature leaped towards its prey.

“WAIT-” Stan couldn't even finish his sentence, as the worm surged forwards towards him like a semi-truck, its mouth opening impossibly wide to completely encompass the homeless man. Whatever noise he had been making beforehand was immediately swallowed into nothing as the beasts mouth clamped tightly shut.

Victorious, the creature curled into the air afterwards- Almost pleased with itself as it did so.

Uninterested in anything more, the worm was quick to burrow quite literally into midair to leave, and as it zoomed past the rainbow color on its slimy skin seemed to blur into some kind of optical illusion.

Soon, there was nothing in the alleyway but a red car, the stunning night sky, and the sounds of quiet resonating through the area. That, and upon the consumption of Stanley, there was a ginormous patch of static developing where he had been last seen. The static seemed to only spread even more and more as time progressed, devouring everything in its path and destabilizing it...

Life itself was crumbling in on itself...

Soon, all that was left of the scene was a singular wet cigarette on the grimy alleyway floor, but eventually, even that too dissolved into pure static.

One thing was for absolute certain, Stanley had been dead wrong.

Things certainly could get worse...

And they did...

Time log- 11:10 pm filed:

LOCATION: ????

DATE: ????

STATUS: COMPROMISED!

⏳🪱🪱🪱⌛️

And that’s the end of this little teaser, hope you enjoyed haha- Trust me, it’s pretty sweet I swear. I just had to technically kill off a character to prove a point. Tbh, I might tweak this portion a bit, just cuz I can.

Basic gist if your interested:

It's been 4 years since that fateful summer in Gravity Falls, and our favorite young Pines still can't get a break. The two 16-year-olds are enlisted by the Time Anomaly Removal Crew- Which has since dwindled after the events of Weirdmaggedon- Because a TIME WORM has been set loose upon the timeline!

They must ask the twins to deal with it because they don't really have very much experience dealing with monsters, and with the extreme loss of bodies in their department they can't risk losing more officers. Dipper and Mable have half a mind to refuse; however the worm is targeting versions of their Grunkles from the past

(Cuz Time worms are drawn in by “canon people” which are folks whose presence holds great precedence in the timeline.-)

It has already managed to eat a couple stans and Fords from points in time- However there's still a way to save the timeline which is by killing it. Luckily, the TARC have managed to predict the trajectory of the worm, and plan to send the twins in earlier so that they have the jump on it. They have hologram disguises so that no one puts together their relation to the current time-period pines...

Meanwhile, in the 1900s, the 12-year-olds Stan and Ford are apprehensive of their newest babysitters... Yes, the disguised versions of Mabel and Dipper- Now Travis and Vanellope- Take to babysitting the young twins to scope out for time worms and protect the kids from being eaten. Chaos ensues.

Lemmy know if folks are interested lol

[sapphosscribe]

How awkward is it gonna be when Stan gets home after all that happened LMAO like im imaging it being like

Mable: "omg how did it gooo!!!!?"

Stan: "it went- it went well id say"

Mable: "what happened??"

Stan: "ill te you when you get older" LOL

Just for you, a little behind the scenes interaction ☺️:

Stan left out in the early hours when the sun was just beginning to lighten the horizon.

Fiddleford had tried to convince him to stay for breakfast, but Stan had gently declined the invitation, not wanting a run in with Tate.

“Besides, I got my own breakfast duties. Dipper and Mabel would starve if it was up to Ford to feed ‘em. I gotta get back.” Fiddleford had eyed him wistfully, ghosting a hand down his arm.

“I sure know enough not to get between you and those young’uns. Maybe I can cook up something for you one day.” Stan felt himself getting all sappy with the way Fiddleford was gazing at him and looked away.

“If you want. I wouldn’t mind it,” he replied. Fiddleford hummed.

“I’d love to,” he said reaching up to peck a kiss on his cheek, “you drive safe now.”

Stan caught him before he could pull away, giving Fidds a proper goodbye kiss that he sighed into. Stan wanted to deepen it, to crawl right back into bed, but he forced himself to pull away, watching a hundred watt grin spread across Fidds’ face.

“I’ll call you,” he promised, looking back at him even as he descended the steps. The soft muss of Fidds’ hair and the even softer look in his eyes as he pressed his hand to his mouth made Stan’s heart do somersaults in his chest.

“Or you call me! Whenever you want! Honest! I’m not-! Shit!” Stan stumbled as he rammed into the side his car, having not paid enough attention to where he was going. Fiddleford barked out a laugh, watching him, and Stan flushed under his gaze.

“Anyway, uh, good night. Good morning!” He corrected, climbing into his car and starting it up.

The drive across town had only taken about twenty minutes, but Stan let the windows down on the way the brisk morning air of the forest filling his senses as he sung along to whatever was on the radio and drummed his fingers on the wheel. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t stop smiling.

The Mystery Shack at this time of the day was quiet and peaceful before crowds of tourists started filing in and the entire thing filled up with the noise and laughter of the twins and Ford, Soos and Melody giving tours, and Wendy playing her music over the speakers. His family. Stan chuckled to himself, parking the Diablo and humming Bruce Springsteen as he jogged up the porch steps. He was a little sore from last night, but even the ache in his back was welcome as he carefully opened the door and eased it shut behind him.

He wanted to clean up before Ford or the twins saw him. It wasn’t like he was debauched or anything, but he’d rather not get any curious stares or questions.

He turned around, ready to tiptoe down the hall to his room, when a sharp mechanical whine sounded from behind him that made him wince.

Shit. He should have known.

“Stanley?” His brother asked. He looked over his shoulder to find Ford with his energy weapon primed and leveled at his back, though the barrel was tipped down to the floor now.

“Yep. That’s me,” he said, a disgruntled look overtaking his twins face.

“What in the name of Sagan are you doing sneaking around? I thought you were some ill-intentioned intruder!”

“Shh! Keep it down, would ya?” Stan hissed, flagging his hands for quiet, “why the hell are you up so early?”

The question seemed to make his twin bristle, eyes darting away.

“Well… I could ask you the same question! It’s highly irregular for you to be awake before six! Much less dressed like-. Hang on,” Ford said, stopping his spiel to step closer even as Stan took a step back. He narrowed his eyes, inspecting his clothes.

“You wore this last night,” he said, giving him a confused look as Stan stared somewhere over his shoulder and fought down a blush, “it’s impractical as loungewear. Why do you have it on?”

“It was the only thing I had unless you wanted me driving home across town naked,” Stan snapped, embarrassed and irritated. Ford still seemed baffled.

“Driving home? Where were…?”

Stan sees the moment Ford figures it out, eyes widening and mouth forming a small ‘o’ as his face turns pink, then red in quick succession.

“O-oh!”

“Yeah,” Stan replied flatly, looking anywhere but at his twin. Ford stood rooted to the spot.

“So… um. The date was a success, then?” His brother asked stiltedly.

“Uh huh.”

“And did you two… have a good time?” He asked, fiddling with his hands before tucking them behind his back. Stan frowned, watching him.

Clearly, his brother was trying to express his support and interest with these platitudes and Stan appreciated the gesture, really, but all he wanted at the moment was a hot shower and some clothes that didn’t still have Fiddleford’s scent clinging to them.

“I don’t want to have this conversation right now, so I’m gonna go,” he said bluntly, watching relief flood Ford’s face. His twin nodded vigorously.

“Yes. Of course. Right. Good morning,” he said as Stan turned and retreated into his bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him and locking it.

Somewhere in his pocket, his phone vibrated and Stan fished it out to find a message waiting for him

Fiddleford, 5:23 am

I had fun last night. Can’t wait for the next time. 😘

And, once again, Stan found himself grinning like an idiot.

Live footage of Stan after receiving that text:

[alottodix]

Dix didn’t die. Dix is sitting her final exams. Dix needs help. Thus, enjoy my disgusting South Park essay headcanons while I procrastinate attacking my Rome textbook like a loser:

Kyle and Cartman are absolutely the kind of assholes to walk out of an essay-based exam, be silent for like twenty-seconds, and then delve into the most insane argument about the right conclusion to have drawn every single time. They do not give a shit about volume. Is Tweek having a panic attack about failing? Yes. Does that stop them essentially terrifying everybody with what should have been written? No.

Kenny and Stan walk behind them listening to their screamed points about historical debate, sinking deeper into the despair that they both have absolutely just failed. In reality, Kenny passes with flying colours. He’s what every examiner wants in an essay kid. Solid delivery, straight to the point, blunt finish that screams “fuck you. I should be doing STEM.”

Meanwhile Stan is the kid to write an essay, turn it into a vent half-way through, and then end with an oddly poetic conclusion that will make whoever is marking these exams either sigh in despair or pray this kid gets into songwriting. Thus, he still passes based off delivery alone in subjects relying on interpretation. If he needs to debate a point based on, well, fact… at least he can write something, but it will not be good. He’s the guy to write broadly about a topic in a way that becomes weirdly philosophical in his attempts to mask what he doesn’t know with abstract terms. Still, depending on whoever is giving him a grade, he might get away with it.

NOW, DEBATE LORDS:

Kyle is a beast. Cartman is a beast of a different kind. While Kyle gets top marks for his rigorous performance and his ability to bait the reader with emotional stakes hinging on moral beats that make you terrified to disagree with him, Cartman is writing speeches — rather than essays — stuffed so full of rhetoric it becomes terrifyingly obvious this is the same kid that inspired genocide at 9-years-old.

One time, Kenny and Cartman are walking to sit an exam. Kenny isn’t confident. He hasn’t studied. He knows fuck all beyond how fun it is to draw moustaches on scary men in history textbooks. Cartman nudges him in the rib.

“Collective pronouns.”

Kenny frowns. Cartman repeats himself. It doesn’t help.

“What?”

Cartman turns to face Kenny with all the seriousness of an 18-year-old military commander. “From the moment you step into that exam, you and this examiner are on the same team. Use we. Never I. We.”

“But—”

“We don’t want you to fail, do we?”

Kenny freezes. “I guess not.”

“Then I wanna see a goddamn communist manifesto.”

Weirdly, when he went on to list extra techniques, his advice worked. Kenny passed with a B.

If Kyle had been the one there, however, Kenny would have received a completely different set of instructions.

A crash course in how to write an evaluative introduction, the correct way to thematically code an argument, subtle ways to mask lack of knowledge by swapping clauses in a sentence. All the juicy shit that goes beyond Cartman’s typical “bully until the examiner is embarrassed to dare be on the opposing team” approach. Shit that reminds you Kyle isn’t just studious. No. He’s something worse.

Kyle was raised by a lawyer.

And a lady who declared war on Canada once. He is undefeated in the art of debate and dealing with a chronic need for perfection under pressure.

Equally, Cartman is freakishly good at humanities. Not perfect, but strong enough to reach convincing conclusions. Why?

Cartman is a boy fluent in conflict. Studying wars, he doesn’t take notes for exams but for strategies to admire later. Propaganda, persuasion, leadership — it’s fucking awesome. He remembers minute details about characters, politicians, commanders, playwrights, all as if he’s known them his entire life, subconsciously building up a case-file on each to blackmail them and smear their legacies for a grade. Paragraphs are no longer complex academic debates. They’re narrative devices.

In conclusion, here is how the four would phrase an identical point in an essay, you can guess who is who:

1. “Dix should not be making headcanons. She has an exam to study for. This is bad because she needs good grades. For example, A. Alternatively, A. Therefore, she must return to the desk.”

2. “What is a desk if not a place to sit? This is what Dix asks herself, procrastinating while trapped in the motionless discord of productivity. In fact, what even is productivity? It can be argued that productivity is just a scam. Dix does not want to be scammed because she needs good grades. What are grades? Therefore, while desks are indeed places — no different to a street or a bed, if not more important — desks are scary. Dix is scared like a lion watching those movies where lions poke their heads through the screen and roar to set tone. In conclusion, to be scared is to be human. To be human is to be scared. In fact, Thomas Hardy maintains the belief that humans are scared, too. Fear is a concept about feelings. Feelings are felt. So, WW1 did indeed end in a stalemate between North and South Korea in the 70s. 60s? 1962.”

3. “In conclusion, let’s not waste time entertaining the illusion that rest is inherently productive. That’s a bedtime story for people who want gold stars for doing nothing. If rest were truly productive, coma patients would wake up with PhDs and six-packs. They do not. They wake up confused and unemployed. Thus, it is clear to us that Dix should study. If she does not, she will fail. This has been proven to us before. To ignore this fact is a simple breach in logic.”

4. “There is an abundance of reasons to study. This will help boost grades essential for university. For example, short-term memory is typically decisive in these contexts, requiring a return to books. Furthermore, it is common for stress to weaken ability under pressure and increase the need to maintain a firm grip on the information to combat that. Moreover, these exams are fucking obese. Stuffed full of information to memorise. Thus, it is clear that Dix should study. However, rest is equally necessary to maintain a will to live. This will increase the effectiveness of any work performed in aiding memory. Although this has been a long rest now. She may even fail her exams. What is the point.”

And they all lived happily ever after.

The end.

[imnameimswrld]

ㅤㅤⵌ ׄ ۪ 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐁 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑 ⁰⁰ ׄ ⑅ CEW ‌˖ ֺ ᰮ

— DESCRIPTION ੭ in which they learn about the woman mr cha eunwoo bagged... and she's far more than just the owner of south korea's hottest club.

— PAIRING ੭ cha eunwoo x fem!aston!driver.

— FILE ੭ social media au.

— SERIES ੭ "WAIT...THEY MAKE SENSE !?"

— WARNINGS ੭ language.

— FACE CLAIM ੭ lisa of BLACKPINK.

❪ main masterlist | kpop masterlist | f1 masterlist ❫

━━━━━━━━━━❪ 🖤 ❫━━━━━━━━━━

eunwoo.o_c

📍 Club Seoular, Seoul, South Korea

liked by ddana_yoon, mj_7.7.7, and 1 232 222 others

eunwoo.o_c 🕺.

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mj_7.7.7 no one ask me anything.

↳ user LMAO BRO HAS BEEN SWORN TO SECRECY

user AYO...HUH

user lee dongmin, a damn explanation would be nice 😭... what happened to hello, how are you ?

user I ain't no sheldon genius kid but, I am a y/n l/n stan, and THAT people, looks like my girlie.

↳ user dude...Y/N AND EUNWOO !?!? like, like, like, Y/N L/N AND CHA EUNWOO !?

↳ user lol who tf is this girl ?

↳ user who- "WHO" !? daaawwggg, u got me lmao in public rn

↳ user you're telling me there are people who don't know who Y/N L/N IS !?!? nah das crazy.

↳ user guys, we can't just assume that's y/n just because it's her club, u literally can't see shit on the picture 😭

ddana_yoon where's my pic creds ???

ddana_yoon no ? okay.

ddana_yoon ynusername, tell eunwoo hyung to give me creds or I'll expose ur relationship.

ddana_yoon oh- oopsies 🤭

↳ ynusername i don't even have the words...

↳ eunwoo.o_c i- you- I'm coming for you.

↳ user OKAY NAH SANA U WRONG FOR THAT (thank u pookie) !!!

ynusername added to their story ! • 1hr

seen by eunwoo.o_c, fernandoalo_official, and 1 222 242 others

user replied to your story !

OH U TELL 'EM QUEEN

user replied to your story !

EUNYN RAAARRRRR !!!!!

oh okay 😭

MOTHER !?

astonmartinf1

liked by ynusername, eunwoo.o_c, and 1 924 332 others

astonmartinf1 and that's p1 in miami !!! all hail the aston princess, because she's done it again 💚👑 (btw, have u checked out ClubSeoular_official yet ???)

#Y/nL/n #MiamiGP #F1 #AstonMartinF1

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ynusername let's gooooo !!! 💚

user l/n has literally scored p1 for five years IN A ROW in Miami, that track is her bitch and no one can convince me otherwise ✋[ liked by ynusername ]

eunwoo.o_c 😍😍😍

user WAIT DID YA'LL SEE EUNWOO AT THE RACE 😭

↳ user giiiirrlll, not only did he look HELLA (he's he's much taller in person holy shit), he was literally attached to y/n's side whenever he could be it was so cute 😭

↳ user omg yes and this was ALL week too !

↳ user ALL WEEK !?!? you mean to tell me he was there for sprints AND quali and I NEVER NOTICED 😀😃

ynusername added to their story ! • 1hr

seen by p_rocky, ast_jinjin, and 2 024 923 others

eunwoo.o_c

liked by fernandoalo_official, ynusername, and 1 989 232 others

eunwoo.o_c so incredibly proud of you my love, i always am 💚

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user excuse me while I go cry in that cold and dark corner for a sec

ynusername my whole support system, I love you so much chacha 💋

↳ eunwoo.o_c I love you more princess 🥰

↳ user chacha ??? nah that's actually really cute 😭

user they're literally both the most randomest, and adorable couple of the century.

comments have been limited under this post

𔘓. 𔘓. 𔘓.

taglist: @minkyungseokie @dreamyzhou @treehouse-mouse

[neuvilette-tea-party]

i've read all of your steb fics and im absolutely obsessed with your characterisation of him. your writing is stunning and the way you write is so ensnaring. i always jump out of my seat when you upload

please please please do not feel pressured to write this!!

steb with a winged s/o, potentially with bird-like behaviour? courting him with shiny trinkets, whistling/chirping when happy, fluffing up their when they're happy, maybe they have one of those round beds to make a large nest 😭🫶 please don't feel pressured to do this!!

please take care of yourself!!! 💕 have a good day/night 🫂

- 💐

Steb with a fellow Vastaya, there you go!

⋆༺𓆩 Steb x GN!reader 𓆪༻⋆

Tags : Steb is selectively mute, short and cute, pure fluff, grooming and taking care of a spouse, reader is a Vastaya bird.

“A-Tchou!”  

You open your eyes, still full of sleep, discovering Steb’s face in your plumage, making him sneeze loudly. You lazily raise your bust, stretching your wings deliciously as he sneezes into a tissue, nose all stuffy. 

He leans forward with a smile, and you caress your nose tips with glee, greeting each other the way you love. Steb starts purring and gently pecks your nose before crawling out of the nest. 

You never liked bed. You prefer creating a nest of plushies and plaids and covers on the ground and rolling into a ball in it, getting all cozy. Steb still has his own bed in the same room, but he enjoys joining you in your nest in the middle of the night to hug you while you snore lowly. 

You shake your wings and sneeze too. 

Oh. Time to wash your feathers! 

You crawl out on all four and stan up to get rid of your pajama top immodestly, catching the eye of your Vastaya that has to do a double take at you. You wink and blow him a kiss as you head down to enter your microscopic garden. 

You pull on the garden hose and sit down on a small stool to wash your feathers in that fresh morning. You contort yourself in all positions to reach all your feathers, sneezing once more. A hand appears to grab the hose from your clawed hand to help you wash. You turn your buqt to see Steb kneeling down and gently grabbing your left wing to splash the water on it cautiously, focused on his task. 

“Thank you, Handsome!” You smile at him. 

His ears twitch as a response as he thoroughly wet your delicate wings. While he is taking care of one, you check the other to tear out dead feathers and make room for the new ones.  

You spend 20 minutes in the garden, focused on your feathers, cleaning and grooming yourself properly. While Steb finishes, you grab a file and start filing your claws down, or at least rounding them up.  

Steb taps your shoulder, signaling you that he just finished and you are now all cleaned up. You nod and stretch your wings once more, shaking the excess water off, and go to lie on the fresh grass, your wings stretched under the morning sun to dry off. 

Steb reappears from the kitchen with two balls of almonds and red berries to eat. You rise up in a sitting position and start picking the goodies with your fingers, while he prefers to eat with a spoon.  His bowl has some yogurt with honey to spice things up, but not yours, as you cannot digest milk as an avian.  

You remain seated together in the grass, eating breakfast in silence, taking advantage of the morning’s peacefulness in Piltover. 

Moments to rare to let escape carelessly. 

You dive your hand into your pajama’s pocket, searching for the latest trinket you found. You search a bit until you find something. You smile and crawl to Steb, who turns his head toward you with a patient grin. 

He tilts his head at you as you extend your closed hand to him, slowly revealing a silvery ring with a small mounted white diamond. He whistles, impressed, and takes it delicately to observe it under the sun. 

You find this one, gliding over the forest near Piltover’s edge. 

The ray’s light hit the diamond directly, creating a wonderful effect, shining on his green scales, illuminating your lover in a peaceful light. 

A wonder to see. 

He signs thank you and pull on a discreet chain he has around his solid neck, revealing a collection of all the shiny little trinkets you ever brought him home, and he adds the ring as a center piece, keeping them all close to his heart.  

He smiles at you. 

“Th... Thank... You... Love...” He breathes painfully, but keeps smiling. 

You smile brightly back, your feathers poofing up on your neck, making him chuckle. He brushes his nose tip to yours with a light purr. 

“A...Aaaaa...-TCHOO!” 

“Sorry, Steb!” You part from him with a laugh. 

He shakes his head as it’s nothing, getting a tissue. 

You remain sitting next to one another, looking at the sky and the clouds, happy. 

In love... 

@dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @brandy-and-bane @sp-the-fae-queen @aeeliy @sanktastuff @telephoneonawire @daichisito @sofiyathelast-blog @luv.della 

[sehtoast]

Rebirth (Homelander x OC)

18+ | heavy descriptions of gore, s4 e4 spoilers, the bad room, mentions of sexual abuse/trauma, torture, they're making each other worse in this one actually and homie deserves that kind of ride or die vibe | Fic Directory

“So, how do you feel?”  

Such a simple question for such a… gruesome task.  Benjamin had gone with Homelander to his moment of reconciliation.  Even helped him pipe sloppy icing writing onto that ugly little Carvel cake.

He knew everything.  Long ago, after busting into Stan Edgar’s personal terminal, Ben found the tapes and files on Homelander’s childhood.  Watching them had been sickening at best, but hearing the personal account as described to him by his lover over the years?

Even the do-no-harm bug himself couldn’t find a reason to prevent Homelander from following through.  He’d found John crying in front of that shattered mirror and pulled him out of his stupor once the banter ended.  Benjamin held him on the couch as he sobbed as he often did after run ins with the different facets of his psyche.  Used to be that there was no one to hold him at all, but the bug changed that.

Homelander would crash, but he would have somewhere safe to burn.

He thought about John’s various accounts of his childhood on the flight to the compound.  The incinerator, the bad room, how on edge he always was under the all seeing eye of big brother.

Usually the violent details emerged after nightmares.  Babbled words and cries for mercy as he tossed and turned until he’d shoot up in bed with his eyes primed to protect himself from his own memories.  Benjamin always held him afterward and listened.

“Sometimes I can still feel it,”  John would say, eyes glassy as he’d fight to keep those little shakes from turning into sobs.  No signs of weakness, no reaction.  Part of his conditioning– he cannot let the world know it hurts.  He cannot be a disappointment.

Ben would all but beg him to let it free anyway.  “You don’t have to be strong with me, pumpkin,”  he would always whisper.  “I love you even when you’re not.  Promise.” 

“But I– I have to be,”  Homelander would reply.

Benjamin always asked why.

John could never give an answer.

The worst were the more… intimate details.  Benjamin knew less about these, but there’d always been a sneaking suspicion that things along the lines of that happened.

Homelander spilled the beans after a panic attack during foreplay.  Stuttered out the details of masturbating during the security guard’s breaks. Doing what young boys do, he’d said.  Failing to finish in time and finding himself subject to mockery day in and out.

The resulting body image and self confidence issues, and the occasional difficulty with performance were all the consequence of some jackass further torturing the boy who never had a safe moment to feel what he described as the only good he could find in that awful room.  

Each time, Ben held him.  Promised him he was safe.  There’s no judgment, no mockery, no humiliation, and certainly no name-calling.  With kisses pressed to John’s knuckles, the two would talk it out until the world became steady again.

It’s why Benjamin doesn’t mind watching John laser that piece of shit’s dick clean off.  He doesn’t bat an eye to any of it.  The torture they face is but a fraction of what they’d done to that little boy– a drop in the lake of the things they swear up and down they don’t recall.

The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.

After listening in on Barbara’s account of Homelander’s conditioned obedience and the nature of his birth, he finds he has no problem holding her steady as his love slaughters the rest of them before her eyes.  

Bit by bit, he dismembers them.  Split them in two and paints the room with their remains.  He laughs and laughs, grinning wide and proud as he pries a man’s jaw open until his neck splits just to rip the tongue from his gullet and chuck it at her face.  He doesn’t stop until they’re no more than unrecognizable piles of flesh and viscera. 

True to their perfected teamwork, Ben webs Barbara to the wall to feast her eyes upon Homelander’s good work, and John?

Well, lasering the door and melting it forever shut was ingenious.

She will die in there, nice and slow. It’s no less than she deserves.

It’s heartbreaking to see how little it did to soothe Homelander’s pain.  Revenge, as Benjamin had told him many times, never quite worked out the way people wanted it to.  It’s potent for as long as it takes for the elevator to reach the surface.  It simmers during the flight.  Fades by the time they touch down at the tower.

And then turns to deep, lurching sobs as they shower it all away.

Release, yes… but not enough.  

It could never be enough.

“Johnny–”

“Homelander,” he chokes through tears. He’d been correcting people all day about his name.  “I’m– I just–”

Ben shushes him softly, thumbs swiping away the odd gooeyness of blood and tears.

“H-Homelander… just–” he tries again.  “Just for now… please…” 

Because Homelander was safe.  Homelander had the strength to overcome.  Homelander was the ideal and the power to protect himself.

The arms around Ben’s abdomen pull him impossibly closer.

“Homelander,” Benjamin murmurs, still stroking softly at his love’s face.  “I love you.”

Maybe not the best thing to say to the man claiming to be casting off the shackles of love, but certainly something always worth reminding him of while he crumbles.  There’s a million promises behind those three little words.

I love you when it hurts.  I love you when it doesn’t.

When it is ugly.

When it is beautiful.

As long as it is you.

His love succumbs to more cries, but Homelander knows, deep down, that it’s okay.

He is safe.

He is loved.

There will be no mockery. No humiliation.

Here, in the arms of his little spider, he need not be strong.  Here, he may simply be.

[knotfodder]

-

[cityof2morrow]

Space-O-Rama Build 001

Published: 7-19-2024 | Updated: 7-20-2024 SUMMARY “With intricate geometric patterns, delicate parabolas, and inverted inversion, Space-O-Rama glass sets a new standard that’s out of this world!” An odd mixture of low-to-mid poly items for retro-futuristic builds, inspired by the Space-o-Rama glass fences (Pets EP). There are 41 objects and a host of recolors using texture resources from PineappleForest (2022) actions from CuriousB (2010), Pixelhate, and Klevestav (2015; 2013). Many of the recolors have a weathered/distressed look.

DETAILS Requires Uni, Nightlife, and Apartment Life Eps. §100-500 | Build and Buy Files with “MESH” in their name are required. You also need the BBNiche1Master (BuggyBooz, 2012),  Elemental TXTR Repository, and he Graphic Glass TXTR Repository from the Repository Pack (Simmons, 2023). Additional repo pack recolors can be found on this site under these tags - #co2recolors, #ts2recolors, #ts2repo #co2repo #co2repopack. ITMES 3 Fences (~1622 poly) 5 Divider Screens (1025-1528 poly) 8 Window Boxes (Columns) (576 poly) 4 Doorframes (Deco) (92-1353 poly) 2 Door Rugs (Columns) (34 poly) –for doors 003 and 004 7 Planters (546-1092 poly) 4 Wall Accents (Columns) (8-12 poly) (3) Neon Panels A-C (1080-1521 poly) – sharp corners and some overlap (shadows look better than when the mesh is completely smooth); small gap on the side ; requires the Nightlife EP. 3 Bunker Walls (22-24 poly) – some overlap 3 Garden Panels (99 poly) *You’ll need “moveobjects on” and “grid on/off” cheats since not all parts align perfectly. DOWNLOAD (choose one) from SFS | from MEGA

7-20-2024 UPDATE : Added alternative versions of Doors 3 and 4. The texture on the top interior was distorted when the poly count (“faces”) got reduced. I recolored that part separately in black. If you want the alternative versions, manually delete old files (they are “..doorframe3-MESH” and “…doorframe4-REPO”) and replace them with these new files (“…alt2”). DOWNLOAD (choose one) ALTERNATE DOOR 3 & 4  from SFS | from MEGA CREDITS Thanks: Simmers with meshing, cloning, and fencing tutorials. Sources: Beyno (Korn via BBFonts), Sci-fi House (AiKu via Creative Commons Attribution, 2018), Space-o-Rama Divider (EA/Maxis), 4t2 Eco Living Door (Ethan, 2020), Streets of Utopia (Stonemason, 2024), SciFi Panels (Unity Fan via CCA, 2023), Scifi Gate (Stan via CCA, 2023), Bomb Rush Cyberfunk Street [fan art] (Max Staples via CCA, 2023), Modular Bunker (mats de Wind via CCA, 2020), modular Walls (detona via CCA, 2018).

[kyunghwannie]

Which members would you be least surprised to find out had made porn?

KYUNGHWANNIE'S "TWICE: THE SECRET PORN STAR TIER LIST" 💎

(Disclaimer: Still 100% fanfiction. Still judging you. Still sparkling harder than Tzuyu’s visuals.)

Didn't read my SaMo series?

Here it is: Two chaos cuties

1.) The Member Who Definitely Made Porn (And We’d Stan) – Sana

The Plot: That girl has zero shame and all the tease. If anyone filmed a solo scene, it’d be her.

Style: Playful, bratty, and loving every second. Think "accidental" nip-slips turning into full-on masturbation shots.

Signature Move: Riding the camera like it’s her "TT" choreo, giggling when she cums.

Kyunghwannie’s Cameo: "Oops, the cameraman (me) ‘accidentally’ joined in. Whoops~" 😇

2.) The Member Who Did It Once For attention (Then Deleted Everything) – Nayeon

The Plot: Got scouted at a club, filmed one ultra-high-class solo video ("for art!"), then panicked and burned the hard drive.

Style: Pouty, theatrical moans, arching her back like she’s in a MV.

Secret Shame: Still gets royalties from Japanese collectors.

Kyunghwannie’s Cameo: "I ‘found’ the deleted files. For… research. Plus no japanese collectors. It was my alt accounts"

3.) The Member Who Almost Did It (But Backed Out Last Second) – Tzuyu

The Plot: Some shady "modeling" offer turned out to be very adult. She showed up, saw the setup, and noped out so fast she left a dust cloud.

Style: Would’ve been painfully awkward. Think "deer in headlights" but naked.

Regret Level: Still gets cold sweats thinking about it.

Kyunghwannie’s Cameo: "I may or may not have the test footage. For… science. Nah, Tzuyu lets me edge to it. Consensual"

Hidden Talent: Editing out her own face but leaving his��very recognizable tattoo in frame.

4.) The Member Who Technically Already Did (But It’s Buried) – Chaeyoung

The Plot: Still new rookies around early 2017, she filmed some ~artsy~ nude shots. Then someone added… sound effects.

Style: Moody lighting, pretending it’s deep, but really she’s just horny.

Where Is It Now? In a vault. In the basement. Under JYP’s tears.

Kyunghwannie’s Cameo: "I ‘found’ the raw files. They’re… poetic."

======================

Final Verdict:

✨ "Anon, you’re asking this like you don’t already have a folder named ‘TWICE’ in your incognito tabs. Be fr."

SIGNED,

—Kyunghwannie (your friendly neighborhood delulu enabler)

P.S. "And yes, I was the actor/director/cameraman/editor. Muhahah." 😈

[profeshyearner]

Humdrum

Chapter 4

Homelander x reader slow burn that loosely follows the events of the series. The reader is an NYC transplant working as an archivist at Vought.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, stalking, brief smut

Tracklist:

It’s Happening Again - Agnes Obel

I Don’t Smoke - Mitski

The End - LLow

The day Stan Edgar was arrested, no one said anything.

There was no announcement. No internal memo. Not even a leak to the press—which was strange, because Vought lived on press. But this was different. This wasn’t the kind of scandal they could spin with a black-and-white press release and a smile. This wasn’t someone cheating on their taxes. This was rot at the root.

Edgar had been the center of the web. With him gone, the threads snapped one by one.

Meetings got canceled. Floors got shuffled. Entire departments went dark without warning. The cafeteria stopped serving hot food. HR stopped returning emails. People started whispering about contingency plans, but no one knew who was in charge anymore. Not officially, anyway.

And Homelander? He didn’t show up.

That was the worst part. He didn’t yell. Didn’t grandstand. Didn’t march into the boardroom and demand the corner office. No, he simply wasn’t there. Not on the 99th floor. Not on the news. Not even in the building.

You’d think his absence would’ve been a relief.

But it felt worse.

Because absence can be strategic. Absence can be a warning. Absence can mean: I don’t need to be here to control you.

It started small. You’d pass by the glass walls of his penthouse office—always dark, always empty. The elevator dinged like a ghost arriving, but the doors opened to no one. Security started avoiding eye contact. Lower-level analysts left in silent waves. And everyone started watching each other. Like if they just stared hard enough, they could figure out who was next.

You began to unravel quietly.

No breakdown. No scream. Just… a slow drip.

You stopped going home some nights. Stayed late under the cold fluorescence of your office, hunched in front of footage you’d already archived. The tapes played on loop—grainy lab cameras, the same boy, the same voice, the same screaming. You memorized them without meaning to.

You ran on the treadmill in the company gym until your lungs burned. Until your legs gave out and your body felt quiet. You didn’t know why. Maybe you were trying to feel control. Maybe you just wanted to feel anything that wasn’t dread.

You started smoking again. At first, on the rooftop. Then the stairwell. Then your office with the window cracked open, like the smoke might carry your thoughts out and away from you. One morning you woke up with your face pressed to your desk and your fingers stained yellow.

You stopped caring about your appearance. Late to meetings. Hair tangled. Wrinkled blouses pulled from the bottom of drawers. Once, you wore mismatched shoes and didn’t notice until hours later. No one said anything. Maybe they were afraid to.

Sister Sage showed up more.

At first, she lingered in the background—clipboard in hand, eyes flicking from her tablet to you and back again. But then she started sitting. Right there in your office. Watching you work in total silence, like you were part of some behavioral study.

She never told you why. Never gave a reason. She didn’t have to.

Occasionally, she’d speak. Short, clipped observations, usually at the exact moment you felt like unraveling:

“You’re not sleeping.”

“You accessed the same archive file thirty-two times this week.”

“You’re dissociating more frequently. Fascinating.”

You started dreading the sound of her shoes in the hallway. The way she never really blinked. The way she stared at you like she was already three steps ahead of your brain.

One day, you snapped.

“What do you want from me?”

Sage tilted her head, just slightly.

“Data,” she said.

And smiled.

But even she wasn’t the one haunting you.

Homelander never returned. Not in person.

But he was everywhere.

At night, your apartment felt wrong. You swore you’d locked your windows—but one was cracked open when you got home. A coffee mug was moved half an inch to the left. You left a drawer slightly ajar on purpose. The next morning, it was closed.

You told yourself it was exhaustion. That you were imagining things. That the smell of aftershave in your hallway was a coincidence. That the faint shape you thought you saw in the reflection of your television—tall, still, watching—was a trick of the light.

But you started muttering to yourself. Saying his name aloud just to hear it. Just to feel like you had control over it.

You unplugged your television. Removed your phone battery. Started checking every room when you got home. Once, you found a single fingerprint on your bathroom mirror. Another time, you smelled blood, faintly, on your sheets.

And every night, every night, you dreamed of the shower.

Of the red water. The heat of his body behind yours. His voice—low, broken, terrible. The way he held you like you were his.

You woke up gasping more than once. You bit your own hand until it bled just to stay grounded.

You began to miss him. You hated yourself for it.

One night, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You closed your computer without shutting it down. Left the lights on. Walked out of Vought Tower without telling anyone where you were going.

You found a bar on 9th and Halstead—dim, quiet, full of people who didn’t care where you worked. You ordered something strong and fast. Then another. Then something you didn’t ask the name of.

You weren’t celebrating. You weren’t grieving.

You were trying to drown something. Or maybe chase it out.

He wasn’t there. He hadn’t been. Not since the shower.

But it didn’t matter. Your skin still remembered the way the steam clung to his shoulders. The way he stood too close. The broken rasp in his voice. That look—not love, not lust, but need, raw and predatory and childlike all at once.

He hadn’t touched you since. Hadn’t spoken to you. Hadn’t even looked at you.

So why did it feel like he never left?

You drank more. Flirted with a stranger. He had brown eyes and a soft laugh and the kind of hands that weren’t meant to break anything.

You told yourself that was what you wanted. Something human. Something harmless.

You took him home.

You let him kiss you on the elevator. Let him follow you through the door. You smiled when he took off his coat. Tried to feel anything when he touched you.

But everything about it felt… thin. Off. Like wearing someone else’s clothes.

He kissed you like he was grateful. You kissed him like you were hoping it would stick.

You undressed each other in the dark.

When he was inside you, you closed your eyes and tried to imagine it felt like his weight. Like his heat. You tried not to picture the way Homelander looked at you in the mirror. The way he smelled when he was soaked in blood. The way he shook when he spoke your name like he wasn’t supposed to know it.

The man came with a soft groan and whispered something you didn’t catch.

You turned your face away.

—

He left without asking for your number.

You lay on your side, staring at the wall, not blinking. You didn’t bother changing the sheets. You didn’t bother pretending it helped.

It didn’t.

Your apartment used to be quiet.

Now it felt watched.

You started checking the locks three times instead of two. Then five. Then eight. You set up a doorstop under your bedroom door and jammed a chair against the knob. You kept the hallway light on. Slept with your keys clenched in your hand.

But it never felt like enough.

Because things kept moving.

A spoon left slightly askew. The closet door nudged open. A towel, still damp, when you hadn’t showered. Once, you came home to find your favorite mug turned around—handle facing the opposite direction. You knew you hadn’t left it that way.

You told yourself it was stress.

But your hands shook when you unlocked the door.

You started talking aloud just to hear a voice.

Just to prove you were still alone.

Sometimes, you’d come home and smell something faint but familiar. Warm. Sharp. Metallic. Like ozone.

Like blood.

Like him.

You told yourself you were imagining it.

But your cat—who usually hid from guests—started meowing at corners. Sitting in front of empty doorways. Hissing at nothing.

You threw out the flower. The one left on your pillow. You told yourself it had always been there. That maybe it fell out of a book.

But the petals were fresh.

And you didn’t own any white flowers.

You stopped inviting people over. Stopped answering the door at all. Every knock felt like a threat.

You unplugged your TV. Covered the camera on your laptop. Slept in clothes in case you had to run.

Once, you caught yourself whispering his name like a spell, his real name, the one from the tapes

Like saying it might keep him away.

Or bring him back.

You didn’t know what this was.

Not love. Not longing.

It was a cage being built around your mind one quiet hour at a time.

But that didn’t make it easier.

Didn’t stop the fear from curling under your skin like wire.

Because paranoia is only paranoia until you’re right.

You opened your closet and found your drawers rifled through.

Nothing taken.

Just… touched.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run.

You sat on the floor and stared at your open sock drawer until sunrise.

And when you went to work the next morning, Sage was waiting outside your office.

“You really should stop leaving your windows unlocked,” she said without looking up from her tablet.

You stared at her. Blinked.

She smiled.

—

The next morning, your supervisor called you in.

She didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t mention the dark circles under your eyes or the fact that your shirt was buttoned unevenly. Just said:

“You need to pull yourself together.”

You nodded.

“You’ve been off for weeks. Whatever’s going on with you—fix it. Fast.”

You nodded again.

She waited for you to say something. You didn’t.

Eventually, she sighed and looked back at her screen.

You left her office without another word.

That night, your apartment was quiet.

You moved through it like you weren’t there. Like it wasn’t yours.

You washed a glass in the sink.

You stared at the tile. You checked the window latch again. And again.

Then you saw it.

Not in the living room. Not in the mirror.

In the kitchen.

In the sink.

A single strand of blonde hair, curled against the steel basin. Pale as snow.

—————

Homelander’s Perspective:

There was no announcement.

Not from Edgar. Not from him.

Homelander didn’t need to make one. His silence was enough. Silence carried weight. Power. Fear. He’d learned that in the lab—how silence could make even grown men piss themselves.

So he stayed quiet, pulled back from showy public appearances. Let Vought rot from the inside out.

He knew the workers felt his absence, but he was watching everything.

The glass walls of the bullpen stayed dark. The seven didn’t deserve to see him, the public didn’t deserve to see him. They’d stared too long already. They’d looked at him like a weapon, a freak, a thing to be managed. Edgar had made sure of that.

Now Edgar was gone, out of the picture.

And you—you—you were still here.

You sat in your little office like a soldier bleeding out. Quiet. Unnoticed. Beautiful.

He watched you fall apart in real time. Watched the way your shoulders curled in, how your hair stopped getting brushed, how your eyes stopped shining. It was like watching a candle melt.

And he loved you like that.

Not the way other people love. Not messy or loud. His love was silent. Holy. You were something sacred when you were broken. Fragile. Soft. Yours was a kind of pain that didn’t whine or scream—it endured. And it made him feel clean just watching you suffer.

You were good, then.

Pure.

When you played those tapes—his tapes—he watched the flicker of the screen on your face and imagined crawling into your lap, curling there like something small, something helpless. Maybe you’d run your hands through his hair. Maybe you’d say his name like it meant something. He liked imagining the way his name—his real name—would sound falling from your lips.

John. John. John.

You were the only one who’d seen him—really seen him. And you hadn’t turned away. Not yet.

Sister Sage was just a tool. She thought she was studying you. Observing your decline like data points in a lab. But he didn’t care about her notes. He only cared about what you whispered when you thought you were alone.

Wounded. Perfect.

Untouched.

He went to your apartment when you weren’t there.

At first, he told himself it was for protection. To make sure you were safe. That no one else was watching you the way he was. But that lie didn’t last long.

He memorized your schedule. Knew which days you stayed late at Vought. Which coffee shop you stopped at on the way home. How long you lingered on the sidewalk before unlocking your door.

That was when he’d slip in.

Through the window. Or the balcony. Or the front door.

The first time, he didn’t touch anything. Just stood in your bedroom and listened. The hum of the refrigerator. The faint buzz of the streetlamp outside your curtains. The softness of your sheets, still shaped to your sleeping form.

He stood there for twenty-three minutes.

Didn’t breathe.

The second time, he sat on the edge of your bed.

Ran his fingers over the comforter. Opened your drawers. Touched the silk of your underwear like it was sacred. Lifted a bottle of perfume and sprayed it just once into the air, closing his eyes like it was a prayer.

He found the clothes you wore the night of the shower. Still balled in the corner of your closet. Still crusted with blood.

He didn’t touch those.

He just stared.

The third time, he brought a gift.

A single white flower.

He left it on your pillow.

You never mentioned it.

He started visiting more often after that. When he knew you were out—at work, at the gym, out trying to forget him—he’d come and remind himself who you really were. Before you ruined it. Before you made him think of you with someone else’s hands on your skin.

But then came him.

The stranger. The man at the bar with the soft hands and boring eyes. He watched it all from above—your drink, your smile, the way your body leaned into something less. He thought you were grieving. Thought maybe this was how you mourned.

But when you brought him home, when you let him touch you, when you opened yourself up to him—

That’s when something broke.

He couldn’t look away.

He watched every second.

Not because he wanted to. But because he had to. Because if he turned his back, it might mean you were someone else. Someone unclean. And he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t stomach the thought that you were like the rest of them—liars with soft skin and open legs and hollow words.

You weren’t supposed to be like that. Not like that. Not dirty.

He stood on your fire escape, hands clenched tight behind his back, heat rolling off him in waves that made the glass fog. He could hear the sounds from inside. The man groaning. You—silent.

Silent like guilt.

He wanted to tear the man apart. Wanted to rip through your door and leave nothing but blood and teeth and whimpers behind.

Homelander stared at the glass like he could burn through it.

Like if he focused hard enough, the heat from his eyes might pass through the distance, through the building, through her chest.

Pop her fucking heart like a balloon.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

He was imagining it too vividly.

Not just the kill—but how it would feel. Not just the blood, but the moment before.

That moment when she realized. When she looked up at him, startled, confused. Her brain not catching up to her terror fast enough.

And then—

His hands. Around her neck. Her nails slicing into his forearms. Her knees bucking against his hips. Her mouth open, her wide fucking doe eyes screaming why are you doing this?

But she’d know why.

She fucking knew.

He’d say it to her. Whisper it as she gasped and kicked and bled from her lip when he slammed her head too hard against the floor:

“You were supposed to be mine.”

“I let you see me. I let you touch me when I was broken.”

“And you gave yourself to him.”

Her feet would drag weakly across the floor, scraping hardwood. Her eyes would fill with tears, with blood. With him.

And still—still!—he knew there’d be a part of her that wanted him to stop. That believed he might. That believed he cared.

That’s what made him want to do it more.

To teach her what gods do to liars.

She should have worshipped him.

Instead, she invited some stranger in and let him forget her name while he came inside her.

And now Homelander would remind her who she belonged to.

Not just with fear. Not just with pain.

With total, annihilating clarity.

He’d leave her gasping on the floor, pupils blown wide, throat purpled and slick with his fingerprints. No words. No excuses.

Only silence.

Only truth.

And then, maybe then, he could let her go.

Maybe then he’d finally stop dreaming about her.

He blinked his thoughts away, focusing on you again. The very much alive you, laying there in the bed unmoving.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t call anyone.

You didn’t even change the sheets.

You just laid there. Quiet.

—

There were rules, at first, to his visits.

He wouldn’t take anything. Wouldn’t leave a trace.

One night, he found a wine glass in the sink. With lipstick.

Not your color.

His jaw clenched.

His vision blurred.

He shattered the glass in one hand and didn’t even feel the cut.

He scrubbed the counter with his bare palm until his blood soaked into the sponge. He left the pieces in the trash but adjusted the bag so it looked undisturbed.

After that, he wasn’t careful anymore.

He opened your bathroom cabinet.

Checked the expiration dates on your birth control.

Counted your razors.

Smelled your pillow.

He found an old T-shirt—yours, worn soft with time—and folded it into his pocket. Not to keep. Just for a while.

And when he left, he always did one thing:

He moved something.

A drawer. A magnet. A curtain.

Just enough to remind you that he’d been there.

That you weren’t alone.

That no matter how far you fell, he was always watching.

Waiting for you to be good again.

He came back that night. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood in your kitchen and watched the sink drip.

Listened to you breathing in the other room.

xx

Taglist: @xxyaoi-nationxx @unnisumi

[isawken]

clown eggs!

everyone loves ‘em. most notably, i, some random dumbass, have one. but where do they come from? if you say the clowns lay the eggs i'll fucking cut you this is a history lesson. be serious about clowns for once in your life

clowns international is the oldest operating clown organization. it was founded by a dude named Stan Bult allll the way back in the 1940s. this man was not a clown. he was a chemist. i wish i knew more about him but it's been impossible to get anything more than blurbs, all relating to eggs. i don’t even know what sort of chemistry he did! but he grew up with and liked clowns a lot. so he got an organization together- originally called the International Circus Clowns Club. one thing about our boy Stan is he had an almost cartoonishly-niche hobby: he liked painting hollowed out chicken eggs with the faces of some of the great clowns that preceded his clownpatriots. see some of the below Bult originals:

it didn’t take long for his practice to become enmeshed with the organization. like seriously what self-respecting clown wouldn’t appreciate the absurdity of such a practice. Stan started painting the faces of the org’s contemporary members, both for their own enjoyment and to keep a record of their membership far more interesting than a bunch of dusty ol files. over the next few decades and up until his death in 1966, my man Stan painted over 450 eggs! boy, my cloaca’s sore just thinking about it!

the egg-painting practice died with him. but it wouldn’t stay dead. 20 years after his death the organization, now called Clowns International, was under new management, and they knew the importance of the history they had. they hired a new egg-specific artist and offered (now ceramic) painted eggs to all of their members, for a small fee along with their standard membership fee. for a slightly more expensive fee you can get two eggs- one for the registry, and one to keep in your home for all to see and be very confused by, depending on how much your visitors know about your personal life.

now, i’ve seen some very dramatic statements made about the registry. and i would like to dispel them. no, the organization does not litigate their eggs. there is no Clown Lawyer who keeps tabs on every existing egg and every incoming egg and mediates disputes about suspiciously similar-looking face paint between clowns. you won’t get Clown Sued if your submitted face looks kinda like another’s. the record has only ever been utilized as just that, a record, so if any sort of interpersonal dispute between clowns arose they could rely on their egg’s existence/history to defend themselves against accusations of theft, or vice versa. sorry to disappoint you freaks out there who want clowns to be jerks but it’s just not like that.

clowns international is not the only organization that does an egg registry, but it is the org that started it all, so theirs often come with a level of provenance. and for those of you who have followed me for a while you know what time it is, yeah that’s right, it’s time to PLUG MY OWN EGG AGAIN YEAH THAT’S RIGHT LOOK AT MY EGG

i promise i'll take new pictures of it soon

if you don’t know me and for some reason want to know more about me and my dearest egg i’ve got two posts about it. honestly extremely humble of me considering how up my own ass i am about this life achievement of mine

anyways, even with the societal downswing vis a vis the overarching cultural opinion on clowns, the organization is still going, and still making eggs. and i for one hope the practice never dies out, and that more specific organizations adopt similar practices. like can you imagine a woodworking guild that makes little wooden statuettes of all their members? the clowns are tastemakers and it's time we realize that.

and that’s the short of Clown Egg History! clown’s don’t lay eggs they are humans and they have very human history that is so so interesting and worth spreading and if i see anyone tag this as clown husbandry i cannot stress enough i will go scorched earth on your ass! if you have any questions on this or other clown-related stuff my inbox is always open and i love to spread the good word of Clown. also i’m sorry but i have a podcast to plug:

fully-clown-centric episodes are in the works and i am planning to have them release before the end of the year but until then please check out what i do have if ur interested in fool-related history! i don’t make any money off this i just really want to share the knowledge about fools across history i have learned because i’m insane and care a great deal about it :o)

[loonarkives]

THE TAEIL SITUATION & THE NEW NTH ROOM - clearing some things up because i've seen a lot of misinformation online.

hi. i don't personally stan nct but i thought that making this post was very important to help people understand what's going on rn in SK and avoid all the bullshit that people are saying online due to misunderstanding and/or lack of better knowledge. before starting i'd like to say that this is not "taeil getting canceled". this is taeil being a fucking criminal and finally facing the consequences of his own actions.

let's get into it.

WHY DID THEY KICK HIM OUT OF NCT?

First thing first he wasn't really "kicked out", he agreed to leave the group, although apparently SM did not terminate the contract with the artist. Taeil was not being accused nor was he under investigation, he was CHARGED with a sexual offense related crime (SM did not specify what crime it was in their official statement), meaning that investigations were already carried out and enough evidence was gathered for the prosecution to file a case against him — "As we gathered the facts, we realized the seriousness of the case and decided that he could no longer continue to be a part of the team" is what SM stated in their official statement.

WHO IS THE VICTIM?

The victim can be found on Instagram as "anges_121430". On this account she tried to expose Taeil for about 6 months before his crimes came to light. She also used to handle a twitter account, created for the same purpose, but it was taken down due to (allegedly) Taeil's fans reports. People say that the victim recently turned 18 and Taeil has been molesting and harrassing her for 6 years, so since she was 12. There is no evidence to support this statement. No age was officially specified by the police. Some people on twitter said that it might be a mistranslation/misinterpretation of "18년" which appeared in the police report and means "year" (not "age"!!! please correct me if i'm wrong) suggesting that it started in 2018. Also beware because since SM's official statement there have been A LOT of fake screenshots going around. Of course i'm not sure that all of them are fake but make sure to carefully verify what you choose to believe, because spreading false info is very harmful to the victim and might result into a lack of credibility.

WERE THE OTHER NCT MEMBERS INVOLVED?

We can't be sure. As far as we're aware they were not, but this is a very delicate subject and we basically have no knowledge about it. While it might be suspicious that in a company with hundreds if not thousands of employees nobody knew for 6 years, i can tell you that it is possible for family members and close friends to hide their crimes and true identity from you for YEARS. I'm not gonna tell you to keep stanning nct and act like nothing happened, that is up to you and it's none of my business. I can however advice you to wait until the police comes forward with more evidence that proves the involvement of other members while continuing to treat them with some sort of sceptical attitude.

WHAT IS THE NTH ROOM?

So, a few years back the south korean police discovered a telegram room with thousands of members who shared intimate photos, sensitive information and revenge p0rn videos of women they knew, and it was rumored to have about 200 (if i'm not mistaken) male celebrities and politicians. The room was closed as soon as it was discovered but a new one was created - and it is the one we're dealing with right now. This room has far more participants (about 220.000 men, which is absolutely fucking disgusting) and they are now also sharing p0rn photos or videos made with deepfakes and AI (of which +200 are of female celebrities). The most alarming thing is that they also found material of ELEMENTARY, MIDDLE SCHOOL AND HIGH SCHOOL CHILDREN. There is also a third room, with about 1.200 members that was specifically made to target female university students.

WAS TAEIL A PART OF THE NTH ROOM?

No, or at least not that we know of. Many people believe that he was because of how close on the timeline the discovery of the new Nth Room and the revelation of his crimes were, but the police said nothing about it. We don't know if any idols were actually involved in the new Nth Room and (if they are) which idols were supposedly involved. I saw a rumor of a list that will be released soon: IT'S FAKE!!!!! DO NOT BELIEVE IT!!!! Believe NOTHING about this until actual police statements come out, PLEASE. This is a very serious situation and we don't need misinformation to make things messier. THIS IS NOT A GAME.

(Koreaboo's article: https://www.koreaboo.com/news/female-kpop-idols-deep-fake-porn/ )

- OTHER THINGS:

Is the list of the female idols whose material was found in the new Nth Room real? Unfortunately yes.

Is it true that Taeil hospitalized the victim's mother? NO. It is not true. He didn't hospitalize her, but it is true that he sent death threats to the victim and her mother while the latter was hospitalized.

Is it true that the victim's brother (or grandpa) broke Taeil's leg after finding out about what he did? This is just a rumor, and i also see a lot of confusion about it because some people say it was her brother, while other people say it was her grandpa. Despite this i personally believe that this might be true because i read somewhere that the day Taeil got injured there were no car accidents registered, but again: IT'S JUST A RUMOR!!!

Is it true that he assaulted and rap3d an 11 year old girl and paralyzed her for life? I have found no evidence that backs up this accusation so NO. But Taeil is still a fucking monster that deserves the worst. All the men involved in these two situations do. They don't deserve to be a part of the community of our planet. They deserve NOTHING. They should be treated like the fucking animals they are. Death upon these monsters and whoever supports and defends them. Pieces of shit.

Please excuse any typos and/or grammatical mistakes, unfortunately english isn't my first language!!! If i said anything wrong, if you have to clarify anything and if you have more evidence + news, please let me know by commenting, reblogging or messaging me. Remember to block and report IMMEDIATELY any account that shares deepfake p0rn content. Thank you.

more information about what's going on lately in SK: https://x.com/muixsuzuya/status/1828792968570122616?s=46

[joanofwaystar01]

you might sleep (but you will never dream)

“What greater power is there, than the power over life and death?”

Tom Riddle is the rising star in the spell damage unit at St Mungo's. When Harry Potter is admitted to his ward with only 6 months to live, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to his new patient.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

tags: harry potter/tom riddle, chronic illness, terminal illness, angst, no happy ending, hurt no comfort, friends to lovers, doctor/patient

note: pls enjoy my first contribution to the tomarry tag, also on ao3 as slaybestieslay946 (my old tumblr acc got shadowbanned).

There was a new patient in the ward.  

Usually, Tom felt nothing when they brought them in. Yes, he was a doctor, the rising star in the spell damage unit. But that didn’t mean he had any of the caring qualities you would usually associate with his profession. 

He had always thought that that was what made him so effective at his job. He was cold, clinical. He didn’t let messy feelings get involved in his work. He was all about the end result, the gold star next to his name when he saved the life of another patient. 

But there was something different about this one. 

It had only been a day, but Tom couldn’t stop thinking about him, sat there in that bed, so very regal, bright green eyes scanning the room ravenously, taking in every detail. 

He couldn’t stop reading through his chart. Harry Potter. 21. Subject to a severe curse, origins unknown. Deterioration present in: heart, lungs, liver, kidneys. TERMINAL. 

*

As much as Tom was drawn to Harry, the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. Everytime he did his rounds, the man shrunk under his gaze. It wasn’t embarrassment. Normally, when someone did that around Tom, it was because they were awkward, because they were attracted to him. Or, because they were scared of him. 

With Potter, it was neither. His expression held disgust, and he acted like his skin crawled everytime Tom pressed two fingers to his wrist to check for a pulse. It was almost like he could see behind his mask, could smell the disdain he had for each patient under his care, no matter how he laughed at their awful jokes, or blushed at their compliments. 

He knew what Tom really thought. He was sure of it. 

At first he had assumed that he was just paranoid. Maybe he assumed everyone was unfeeling, and he had just happened to get it right with Tom. That was before his family came to visit him. 

In fact, it was less family and more a whole village, most of them red-headed.

Tom was beside Harry when they came in, checking the heart-rate monitor on his finger when footsteps came pounding down the hall. He lifted his head to scold them, assuming it was some irresponsible nurses on their break. Instead it was a horde of people, all of them rushing towards his patient. 

“Harry!” They exclaimed in unison, and Tom could do nothing more than watch as the man’s face lit up. 

He backed away from the bed, but couldn’t bring himself to leave. Instead he just stood in the corner by the window, watching as Harry kissed babies and shook hands like he was some kind of celebrity. He had never even smiled in his presence before. 

“Oh, Teddy! Come to see your favourite uncle, I see!” He said, as a young boy, probably about 3 were handed to him to sit on his lap. 

“Molly, those biscuits you sent me really were amazing. I’m not flattering you, see you can ask Stan, and Nurse Jenny!” A laugh, “They were too good not to share, your baking always is!” 

Tom had not even known there were biscuits around. 

Eventually most of them filed out, and he was forced to move to a different area of the room so as not to look like he was purposefully watching. He fiddled with Deborah’s chart while trying to eavesdrop. 

The only two left were a boy and a girl. The boy was part of the ginger-clan, meanwhile the girl had curly brown hair that she had just about tamed into a ponytail. They sat together for nearly an hour, whispering and giggling amongst themselves. Something about it boiled his blood. 

Eventually, Tom could no longer help himself. He stormed over to them, but bore a placid smile outwardly. 

“Hi,” He said as he approached, and they turned to face him, “I’m Doctor Riddle, it's nice to meet you.” 

“Riddle. This is Ron and Hermione.” 

They reacted to him in the normal way. A mixture of embarrassed attraction and awe at his status. He shook hands with both, and had to refrain from wiping his hands on his trousers afterwards. The ginger’s hands were incredibly clammy. 

“It’s great to see that Mr Potter has such good friends to come and visit him, but I’m afraid I must ask that you leave now. You see, we serve dinner quite early here to accommodate our, ah, <em>elder</em> patients, if you know what I mean.” 

The young woman in particular was very apologetic, standing up from her chair immediately and dragging the boy with her. 

“Of course, we’ll be on our way. It was good to see you, Harry.” 

He smiled in return, although it was a little weak, “Yeah. Same time next week?” 

“Of course mate.” The ginger said. 

Then they were rushing out the door. 

As soon as they were gone, Potter’s face snapped back into its usual disgusted expression. In fact, it seemed even more extreme than usual. Clearly he was upset with having his friends kicked from the ward. Tom didn’t take it too much to heart. 

*

The more he watched, the more he noticed just how bright Harry’s presence was. When he wasn’t around Tom that is. He always chatted with the nurses in the morning, and with the people on his ward. Even the terribly annoying Janet, who had been on death’s door for months and wouldn’t shut up about it, would get some friendly conversation from him. 

He was someone who was unfailingly positive, and generous, always sharing out whatever baked goods ‘Molly’ had sent his way. More than once, Tom caught Jenny stuffing her face with something that smelled so good the canteen could never have made it. 

Sometimes he was curious if Harry even knew what his chart said. If he was aware of that word at the end, bolded and capitalised. 

Of course, he did. All patients knew what they said. But Harry just didn’t seem to mind. Even when he had no one to put on a brave face for, when Tom was the only one watching him through the window in the door, he was so serene. Just as regal as he had been on the first day of his admission. 

It took Tom two weeks to strike up the courage to talk to him. 

It was during the few hours when Tom had finished all of his official work, and would normally retreat into his research. The times when he didn’t have to deal with patients were his favourite. 

But, instead, he sought out Harry. It didn’t take him long to find him. 

He was in one of the communal spaces, setting up a chessboard. Perfect. 

“Harry. Mind if I join you?” He asked, smiling as he made his way over. 

He looked up, green eyes piercing into him. A shrug. 

“Sure. Why not?” 

Tom pulled an armchair over so that he could sit across from his patient, waiting as he finished putting all the pieces in their place. 

Tom was white, so he had to go first. 

“I don’t like going first.” Harry said simply. 

Neither did Tom. He liked to feel out his opponent. Any decent chess player did. 

He made a safe move, the king’s pawn to e4. He moved the piece with his hand. Harry did the same on his move. 

“You play like a muggle.” The patient said. 

“So do you.” 

“Are you a muggleborn?” 

Normally Tom would shrink away from this line of questioning. He didn’t like talking about his past. 7 years among the pureblood Slytherins had taught him to tread carefully regarding his lineage. But, for once, he felt no shame. 

“No idea. Not a pureblood, though, that’s for sure.” 

“You were raised by muggles then?” 

“Foster-care. Went through families like no tomorrow.” 

It was a feeble attempt at a joke. Harry nodded in response, but his face remained emotionless.

“That doesn’t shock you?” 

He shook his head. 

“What part? That I was raised by muggles, or that I went through families quickly.” 

“Both.” 

There was a long pause before he spoke again. 

“I was raised by muggles too. My aunt and uncle.” 

Tom reached over to move one of his pieces. 

“Nice pair?” 

“No. Awful.” 

“So they’re not the gingers.” 

“No.” At Tom’s mention of his visitors, Harry’s voice and face grew even more closed off. Clearly a subject he should avoid.

The doctor could find no other way to continue the conversation at that moment, so instead they just played the game for a while. Harry didn’t consider his moves the way Tom did. He was clearly an instinctual being; it matched up with the way he displayed his emotions so plainly. But that didn’t mean he was bad, or impulsive. No, instead he was naturally talented. 

Tom was the opposite. He spent ages brushing his fingers along the edge of the board, grazing over the various pieces. Staring at Harry, trying to read him, to psych him out. He even considered reading his mind, before reminding himself that that was a serious violation of the Hippocratic oath. Even he wasn’t that blase with his livelihood. 

It was only after one of these long stretches of intense thought, when he finally made his move, that Harry spoke up. 

“You’re young to be a doctor.” 

“I am. I turn twenty-four in December.”

“How did you manage that?” 

“I was on a fast-track.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes in suspicion, and Tom couldn’t help but leap at the opportunity to question him. 

“You seem suspicious of that.” 

“I am suspicious.” 

Tom smirked, but spoke innocently, “You suspect me of foul play?” 

Harry shrugged. 

“I just wonder what you’re doing here, s’all.” 

“What, here, playing chess with you? Or here, in this profession.” 

Harry fixed him with another stare.

“Both.” 

Tom leaned back in his chair, well aware that it was his turn once more. Harry had had his go not ten seconds after his first question. 

“Is it such a crime for a doctor to be curious about their patient?” 

“You don’t seem curious about anyone else.” 

That’s because he wasn’t. 

“That’s because you’re the new one. The first new one we’ve had in months.” 

The green eyes narrowed. 

“It’s like you’re upset about it. Upset that there aren’t enough terminally ill 20 year olds being brought to you.” 

“I am upset. Upset that you clearly think so little of me. All of my other patients like me quite a lot, you know. They find me to be just curious enough about them.” 

Harry scoffed, “I’m sure they do.” 

Finally, Tom reached forward and moved his piece, before settling back into the chair. Harry didn’t spare the board a glance, and instead kept his gaze firmly on Tom. It was so intense, he nearly flushed. Nearly. 

“What about my other question?” 

Tom played dumb, “What other question?” 

“Why are you a doctor?” 

“Why, to help people. What other reason is there?” 

Harry gave a little choking noise, and for a second Tom was worried the man was going to collapse, right there in front of him. Then, the sound bubbled up, up through his throat and out of his mouth, until he was throwing his head back in raucous laughter. 

Tom just sat there, astonished, watching as he laughed himself silly. It was the strongest display of emotion he had ever gotten, and a burning desire settled itself deep in his stomach to make him react like that again. 

It took him a little while to calm down, and when he did he was wiping tears away from his eyes. 

“Sorry,” He said, “I’ve been a bit hysterical lately.” 

“Why?” 

Harry blinked at him, a grin forming, “What, is terminal illness not a good enough reason to get a bit hysterical?” 

“No, why did what I said make you laugh?” 

“Oh, that. I just think it’s complete bullshit.” 

“Bullshit?” Tom couldn’t stop the slight edge of panic in his voice. Oh merlin, what if the man was a mind-reader and knew all about the horrible things he thought about his patients. What if he reported him? He was beginning to wish he had properly taught himself occlumency all those years ago. 

“Yeah, bullshit. Like, you’re a liar, and I know you don’t actually give a shit about helping people.” 

“That’s quite an accusation-” 

“Save it Riddle. If you were really so caring, you’d probably not ignore Janet whenever she tells you her bedpan is full!” 

Tom’s nose crinkled in disgust just thinking about it. 

“For starters, that’s the nurses job-” 

“And, I’ve seen the way you talk to Jenny, like she doesn’t even exist! And, even worse, she’s basically in love with you, and I’m sure you're smart enough to notice.”

Tom decided to take the accidental compliment. Still, he was thanking his lucky stars that there was no one else, aside from an old man drooling in the corner, around to hear their confrontation. 

“I don’t see how this has anything to do with not caring about my patients.” He snapped, crossing his arms over his chest in a manner befitting a petulant child. 

“You know what career you should have gone into?” Harry mused. 

Tom couldn’t resist the bait.

“What?”

“Politics. You’re very good at dodging questions. And mostly good at lying.” 

Tom rolled his eyes and scoffed, but didn’t protest. Instead, he waved his hand, moving his piece. 

Harry glanced at the board for only a moment before returning his gaze to Tom. 

“So why are you a doctor then?” 

He considered lying again, but the truth seemed to tumble out of him, unbidden. 

“What greater power is there, than the power over life and death?” 

Harry’s face split into a triumphant smile. He then moved one of his pieces, a pawn, and stood up, ambling off down the corridor without a care in the world. 

It was only after he was gone that Tom realised he was in checkmate. 

*

He was ashamed to say he couldn’t leave Harry alone after that. The first order of business was to have him transferred entirely into his care. He didn’t want some other doctor coming in to poke and prod him. 

Luckily, Malfoy was his supervisor, and he was firmly under his thumb, and practically fell over himself to give Tom full authority on Harry. 

He wasn’t doing it for the reasons he normally would. Usually, he wanted to assert power over other people, to be able to control them fully. But with Harry, he knew he had next to no power over him. The usual charm wasn’t working. Somehow, the man saw right through him. 

So, instead, he just needed to make sure that no-one else had power over him. 

That was just as easy. He just spent every minute he could with him. Be that in the garden adjoining the hospital, in the common areas, or in the ward, Tom tried not to let the boy out of his sight. 

Again, he had no end goal. No conceivable motive aside from an innate, burning, desire to spend all the time that he could with him. 

Harry didn’t seem all that perturbed by the attention. He no longer seemed disgusted by Tom, more so, uninterested. Like he had figured him out, and now he was bored by him. 

Tom had never been so fascinated. 

“You hang around me a lot nowadays.” Harry had said one day when they were out in the garden. 

“I am now your sole caretaker.” 

“You are? So that’s why Malfoy wouldn’t answer any of my questions.” 

He seemed more amused than angry. 

“Probably.” 

“Why’d you do that?”

Tom shrugged. 

“I’m interested in your case.” 

“Oh, yeah, my ‘case’. And what have you worked out so far, genius?” 

His expression soured, “Not as much as I would like.” 

Harry didn’t seem put out. His eyes still sparkled in the late summer sun, despite the dreary subject matter. 

“Not shocking. I’m a goner, mate. How long was it Malfoy gave me, 6 months to a year?” 

Tom felt an unexpected flare of emotion. 

“Malfoy has no idea what he’s talking about.” 

“He doesn’t? I thought he was your superior.” 

He ground his teeth, “Technically speaking, yes, but-” 

“But you’re just soooooo much better than he could ever hope to be?” 

Tom blinked in surprise, “Yes, pretty much.” 

“Huh. So how long do you give me, Doctor Tom?” 

“As long as I say so.” 

*

Ever since he learned what death was, Tom had been obsessed with it. 

He found out about the concept when he squashed his first bug. There was a daddy-long legs, clinging to the wall in the corner of the room he shared with his so-called ‘foster brother’. He had screamed when he saw it, and ran out of the room to get his mummy. 

Tom didn’t run or scream. He stalked over to the corner quietly, barely lifting his feet off of the ground. Then, he’d picked it up, pinching its fat little body in between his fingers. He tried to remember what his foster mother had done when she found a stray insect. He couldn’t recall. So he acted on instinct, crushing it between his fingers. 

When the boy returned, mummy in tow, Tom stood by the window, grinding the body into a pulp with his fingers. She was clearly disturbed, but let it go. 

It was only when he began to seek out the insects to kill that she spoke to him about it. 

“Tommy,” He had always hated that nickname, “You really shouldn’t hurt those poor spiders like that, they have feelings too you know.” 

“No they don’t.” He scoffed, as harsh as a 5 year old could be. 

“Yes they do. When you hurt them like that, they die.” 

“Die?” He said, disbelieving. He probably had heard the word before, but it had never entirely registered in his mind. 

“Yes. It happens to all of us someday, but you’re making it happen extra-soon to those spiders.” 

It wasn’t long before he was passed on to another family, but those words stuck with him. <em>It happens to us all someday</em>. She had to be wrong. Because Tom wasn’t like the rest of them. He was different, he was special. So why did he have to abide by such stupid rules as mortality?

From then on, he made it his mission to not only understand, but to conquer death. When the Ministry came to inform him of his magic, he not only realised <em>just</em> how special he really was, but that he had a way to realise that ultimate dream. He went to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts and got himself a job as a magical doctor for that very dream. 

Where better to conduct his research on death but around the sick and the dying?

Still, when he saw Harry for the first time, watched the way those eyes flickered as they darted around the room, something shifted, and when he threw himself into research, he knew it wasn’t entirely to help his cause. 

Because, of course, there was something to be said for researching an unknown curse that caused rapid deterioration (and death) and then curing it. That was immortality if he had ever heard of it.

But, there was also the fact that Harry was the one suffering the curse. Maybe that was why he was more frantic than ever before.

The man became his guinea pig, and as the weeks and weeks of failed trials went on, he only seemed to grow more amused. 

“You know, I’d never expected you to be someone to get so passionate about something?” 

“About what?” Tom snapped as he hooked an IV into his arm. 

“About this ‘cure’. I mean, you look like you haven’t slept in a month.” 

“I haven’t, not really.” 

“See. Passionate.” 

“What, and you took me for some unfeeling robot?” 

“Hm, yeah, pretty much.” 

Tom took offense to that, but shrugged off the emotion. Maybe that’s why Harry thought he was unfeeling. 

“Well, unfeeling or not, know this Potter. I won't fail.” 

Harry laughed a little at that, but raised his free arm in surrender.

*

He had no signs that you would normally see in the terminally ill. They were often pale and bloodless. They often shook or had fits and seizures. They got nosebleeds and colds and shooting pains and deep-seated aches. 

Harry had only the mildest of obvious symptoms. His skin remained a healthy tan, his hair was as thick and wild as always. He only complained of a mild back pain, which he attributed to an old quidditch injury. Sometimes, he wondered why they were even keeping him here, when he seemed fit as anything. 

It was only when Tom went through the scans of his vital organs that he could see something was wrong. They were all shrivelled and dark at the edges, like rotting fruit. It sickened him to look at them, and he avoided it whenever possible. 

He was also very emotionally healthy. He always smiled, and not in that fake way. He was genuine. Especially when his family came to visit. It was like the whole room brightened whenever he saw them. He wasn’t disheartened by Tom’s constant failure, not nearly as much as he was. In fact, he just grew even lighter at each turn, his mood perpetually buoyant. 

“You’re not scared of dying.” Tom said one day as they played another game of chess. After his first victory, Harry had not beaten him again, and Tom was glad to re-establish his intellectual dominance. 

He laughed, “Isn’t that one of the things you’re not supposed to talk about with the sick? Y’know, dying?” 

“That’s my point. You don’t seem to care.” 

“I do care. I just… I see no point in arguing with it if the universe wants me gone now. I’ve had a good life, and maybe, in return, I should die early.” 

Tom gaped at him, utterly baffled. 

“What? Why do you look so lost?” Harry asked, leaning in closer to peer at him. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I’d rather live a short, good life than a long miserable one.” 

“No good life can be short.” 

He shrugged, “If that’s what you think. It doesn’t shock me you think that way. You seem like the sort of wizard to live to 120.” 

Tom intended to live much longer than that, but he kept that to himself. 

“Hm. Where’s your wand?” 

The patient seemed to suffer from a little whiplash at the sudden conversation shift. 

“Huh? My wand? It’s in my drawer, by my bed. Why?” 

“You never have it with you.” 

He shrugged.

“Don’t need it. What spells would I need to cast in here? Besides, if I want something done, I’ll ask you to do it. You’re always around anyway.” 

He didn’t seem overly appreciative of Tom’s constant presence, but he wasn’t troubled by it either. He was merely ambivalent, like he seemed to be about everything. 

“What core is it?” 

“Phoenix feather.” 

Tom’s eyebrows raised in shock, “Me too.” 

Harry seemed genuinely surprised by the news too. 

“Really? I had always expected you to be more the dragon heartstring type of guy. Y’know, dark magic and all.” 

Tom spluttered, “I don’t use dark magic-” 

“You went to Durmstrang. Don’t worry, no judgement.” 

From anyone else, he would have found that hard to believe, but with Harry he was more concerned how he always seemed to hit the nail right on the head. The boy must have been psychic. 

“But still,” Harry continued, “Phoenix feather suits you.” 

“It does?” 

“Yeah. Like I said. Passionate.” 

*

This supposed passion only grew as winter approached and they began to see the physical effects of Harry’s illness. The cold air and increased viruses going around did nothing to help his lungs, and they began to deteriorate faster than the rest of his body. Nowadays, he could descend into a coughing fit at any moment. 

Tom had requested he be moved to a private room, but Harry himself had declined. He didn’t want to leave his ‘wardmates’. Ridiculous. 

He even tried to convince his friends when they came to visit him. Tom ambushed them when they were leaving, and directed his speech towards Hermione. She had always seemed to be the more sensible of the two. 

“Hi, how are you both?” He said, smiling. 

Ron looked shell-shocked, while she was clearly amused. He brushed it off. 

“We’re good, thank you Doctor Riddle. Harry told us you’ve been taking very good care of him.” 

Tom was unable to stop the spread of a genuine grin across his face. Of <em>course</em> Harry had said that about him. Because he was taking good care of him, the best care in fact. He was worried that his other patients might begin to accuse him of neglect. 

“I’m glad to hear it, but I did want to discuss one matter of his care with you.” 

“Oh? What is it?” She was clearly stifling a smile. 

“Well, he’s having trouble with his lungs now that there are all these colds going around, I’ve suggested moving him to a private room to help with his recovery, but he’s refusing.” 

“He can be stubborn, can’t he?” 

Tom gave a breathless sort of laugh. 

“Yes, very stubborn. Would you consider talking to him about it?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t Doctor.” 

“Why not?” 

Ron then butted in, “Because he already told us that you were gonna try and convince us to convince him to switch rooms!” 

Tom gaped at them.

“So sorry Doctor, I have to say I agree with you on this, but he doesn’t listen to anyone, even us.” Hermione said, “It was lovely to speak to you again!” 

And then, before he had even processed their words, they were leaving.

His face fell into a scowl and he stormed into the ward, marching his way over to Harry’s bed in the corner of the room. 

“Tom? You look a bit put out.” Harry said, his voice slightly croaky as it had been the last few weeks. Still, he was grinning triumphantly. 

He dragged a nearby chair over so he could sit right next to Harry’s bed, and leaned in close to speak to him. 

“Do I? Maybe that’s because my <em>patient</em> is such a stubborn pain the arse-” 

Harry gasped in faux-shock, “Language!” 

Tom’s scowl only deepened. 

“I just wish you would <em>listen</em> to me for once in your life. I’m trying to help you-” 

“I’ve listened. I’ve just decided it's a risk I’m willing to take.” 

“It’s not a risk I’m going to take.” 

“It’s not your bloody decision, Tom.” Now Harry seemed genuinely frustrated, a rare sliver of emotion getting past his cool, calm demeanour. 

They just sat there for a bit scowling at each other, clearly at an impasse, until Janet piped up. 

“Are you two finished with your lovers quarrel?” 

Their heads snapped towards her in sync, and Tom scoffed, standing up. 

“Quite done.” 

Then he was storming away, muttering <em>stupid old woman</em> under his breath. 

*

Things were a little tense for the week that followed, until it seemed that cold and flu season was easing off a little.  Harry was coughing less and less, and even when he did, it wasn’t in that awful way where it sounded like his rib cage would collapse any minute. They fell back into their usual rhythm, and Tom even believed he had made a breakthrough in his research. 

Thus far, he had pretty much just been firing healing blindly into Harry’s body. Yes, antidotes were useful, but only if they knew what to target. And so far, he was at a loss as to what spell had caused Harry’s illness. 

“I can’t believe this has only just occurred to you.” Harry said, “How long have you been working on this? Three months?” For once he seemed genuinely invested in the outcome of his treatment. 

“It clearly didn’t occur to you either.” 

Harry snorted, “It bloody well did. I just thought it obviously wasn’t important if you hadn’t considered it in that enormous brain of yours!” 

“I wanted to run clinical trials first.” He grumbled, even though that wasn’t entirely true.

“Whatever. So what do you want to know?” 

“Everything you remember about the spell. What colour was it?” 

“Uh, purple. Like a blue-ish purple.” 

“And someone cast it?”

“How do spells normally happen, Tom?”

He frowned at him, “As in, it wasn’t from an object.” 

“No, someone cast it.” 

“Well, do you know who?” 

“No idea. Just some random guy on the street. I was caught in the crossfire.” 

Tom could imagine Harry as an auror. He had the reflexes for it, and his wand core and seeming aptitude at wandless magic suggest he was powerful. He could imagine the way he would fight, just as regally as he sat in his bed. 

“Alright. Do you remember anything else about it?” 

He thought for a moment. 

“When he cast it, I felt cold.” 

It didn’t take long for him to find the right spell. In fact, he recognised it as soon as Harry said those words, but he had to be sure. It was something of a Durmstrang classic, the one they all told you about. Some sick man had created it in the 1600s for unofficial use during the rule of the Spanish Inquisition. A spell for a slow, and often painful death. It was, as far as anyone knew, incurable. 

Because, it feasted not on the body, but on the soul. 

*

To be away from Harry for more than a day or so felt frankly wrong. But, he was left with no choice but to seek out his former Spellcraft professor. 

The two had always gotten along well, and she had always answered Tom’s previous letters about niche spellcraft, but this time, she had insisted that he come to Norway to see him. 

It had taken a week to acquire the portkey. It would usually have taken longer, but Malfoy had family connections that could be easily exploited. 

So, a little over a week after his discovery, he landed in Norway, in front of a log cabin. His former professor quickly opened the door, smiling broadly at him. 

“Tom, my dear, come in, come in, it's so good to see you!”

He made his usual polite greetings, accepting a warming cup of tea and a seat by the fire. But he jumped to the chase immediately. 

“You read my letter Professor, you must know why I am here.” 

She paled a little. 

“Yes, Tom, yes, I read it. And, frankly, I must disappoint you. The ‘<em>muerte fria</em>’ has never been thwarted, not in the way you wish to do so.”

He frowned, “I simply don’t believe it. There <em>must</em> be a way to do it.” 

“There is not.” 

“Then, no offence Professor, but what did you drag me all the way out here for?” He snapped, unable to maintain his polite facade in the face of such an acute disappointment. 

“To check on you. People who attempt to break curses such as this… they are liable to drive themselves mad, or destroy themself with some dangerous spell or other. I want neither for you.” 

Tom saw the conflict in her face. She knew something. He had to press harder, and she would eventually snap. Everyone did. 

“Maria.” She looked up from her tea. 

“Please. My patient, he- he is only 21. He should not die…” His voice began to shake with an emotion he did not know he was capable of, “He <em>cannot</em> die. I will not let him, whether you tell me what you know or not.” 

The conflict on her face grew, and then became resigned. Tom knew he had her. 

“Alright. There is one way. But it is dark. Very, very dark. And dangerous. I am only telling you because I trust you will do the right thing, Tom.” 

He nodded, “I will.” 

For once, he felt entirely certain of that fact. 

*

She gave him the horcrux. And he knew it was the answer to all of his problems. 

Not just to Harry’s illness, but to his deepest, darkest desire. They could give him immortality. If he brewed the right potion, collected the right ingredients, the right object, the right <em>person</em>, he could split his soul. He could become immortal. 

And not only him. But Harry too. His sick, terminal patient, would no longer be so. He would be alive, fully alive, forever. 

He began to daydream about it in his spare time. Immortality. And, not the lonely forever-life of research that he had always imagined. Not him alone, travelling to ancient wizarding sanctuaries and the like. No, Harry was always there with him. He would always be there with him. 

So, Tom began to prepare the potion. He snuck into the greenhouse at midnight, the full moon gazing down at him, to steal plants and herbs. He found illegal black market vendors to sell him parts of endangered magical creatures. 

And, in his little laboratory (the cupboard in his office) he brewed, for two full months, until finally, the week before Christmas, it was done. All that was required was the splitting of a soul. 

There was only one problem. Tom had only been able to gather enough ingredients for one person. 

His instincts told him to take it. <em>This is your dream</em> they whispered. <em>It’s all you’ve ever wanted</em>. But, another part of him knew that he would never forgive himself if he stole Harry’s life away from him. Tom had time to make another potion, if not this week, then next year, or next decade. Time was the one thing Harry was desperately short of. 

But, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it yet. This was his life's work. He could enjoy the triumph for just a little longer. 

Besides, by the time December had rolled around, Harry had seemed better. He was brighter, brighter even than when he had first come in at the end of July. 

Still, Christmas had lowered his spirits somewhat. He wasn’t allowed to be discharged, Tom’s decision and the hospitals. He was too much of a risk. After all, he was coming up on Malfoy’s estimate of six months to a year. To allow him to stay somewhere without proper medical care, <em>overnight</em> at that? It was simply unacceptable. 

“I’m sorry you can’t see your family.” Tom said, and he meant it. What a pathetic, emotional person Harry had turned him into. 

The man smiled at him. 

“It’s okay. I get it. All for my safety, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s just a shame to be alone, y’know? They’re even sending Janet home. Jenny’ll be here, of course, although I feel a little bit guilty about tearing her away…”

Tom had to stifle the grin on his face. The horcrux potion wasn’t the only thing he was hiding from him. 

*

On Christmas morning, Tom strolled into the ward at 8, to find Harry still in a fitful slumber. 

He pulled up his usual chair, and just admired him for the moment. The way his messy black hair fell over his eyes, and that peculiar scar that he said was more of a birthmark. Tom liked looking at him. He always had. 

Still, it felt a little creepy to watch him sleep like this, so he reached over a hand and shook him gently. 

“Hnghhh… whatttt?” He grumbled, opening his eyes just a crack before throwing an arm over them. 

“Harry.” 

He dropped his arm in confusion. 

“Tom?” 

“Happy Christmas.” 

Their faces then split into identical grins, and Harry launched himself at Tom, wrapping him in a tight hug. 

“Hah! I knew it! I knew you had something shady going on you bastard!” 

He shrugged, “I normally do.” 

Still, as much as he was playing it cool, he was delighted to see Harry so delighted, and immediately he launched into his itinerary. 

“So, we have the whole ward to ourselves for today because I sent Jenny home, so we can play games, or go in the garden, then I asked the canteen guy to save us some food so there’s that, and then…” 

He trailed off at Harry’s amused expression. 

“What?” 

“No, no, nothing. Just, it makes perfect sense that you’ve planned a bloody Christmas itinerary.” 

“I am nothing if not thorough.” 

Another smile. 

“I’m aware.” 

*

By the end of the day, they had managed to cross off every cliche Christmas activity. Besides, of course, the ones that needed snow, because when did it ever snow in England?

The only thing that was remaining was the promised walk in the gardens. They set off after gorging themselves on all of the sweets Ron and Hermione had brought the day before, and by the time they had finished that, it was already dark. 

Still, by the light of the moon, Tom could see the way Harry’s green eyes glowed, and the way his cheeks were dusted with red. 

“Cold?” He asked when the man gave a light shiver. 

“A little. You gonna offer me your coat?” 

“Fuck no. This is my coat, get your own.” 

“Aw, but Tom, I’m dying. You have to give me your coat.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, it’s the rules.” 

They had stopped, and Tom felt himself stepping closer. Harry didn’t back away. 

“I’ve got a better idea.” 

He leaned closer, and raised a hand, pressing his finger against Harry’s forehead, letting warmth flow into his veins. Still, when the charm was finished, neither of them pulled away. In fact, they only got closer and closer, until their noses were nearly bumping. 

Tom grinned. 

“What are you smiling at?” Harry asked, despite the fact he was wearing the same smile. 

“Hm, nothing.” 

Harry’s eyes twinkled with mischief. 

“Nothing? Oh, guess I misread the situation.” 

He began to back away, but Tom caught him by the back of the neck. 

“Don’t you dare.” 

Then, he bridged the gap between them, small as it was, and kissed him deeply. 

They stood like that for some time, arms wrapped around each other, faces pressed together, fingers deep in tangled hair. 

Eventually they broke apart for air. 

After only a few moments of panting, Harry spoke up again, “Do that again.” 

“Desperate, much?” 

“Don’t test me Riddle. I’ll hex your fucking face off.” 

“No wand?” 

“Don’t doubt my wandless magic.” 

Tom sighed, the sound warm and fond, “I adore you.” 

Then, he did as he was told. 

*

After the New Year was when things started to go downhill. 

The coughing started again. Then it was shortness of breath. Then tiredness.

Tom knew what was coming. Soon, when Harry coughed, flecks of blood speckled the tissue. It was then they moved him into the ICU. And, it was then that Tom finally knew he had to tell Harry about the cure. 

“Hey, how are you?” He asked gently. The vial felt heavy in his pocket. 

“Been better.” Harry croaked. 

Tom leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, placing the hot cup of tea at his bedside. Then, he sat down on the chair that had been left especially for him. 

“Now, listen. I have something to talk to you about.” 

“Okay.” Harry sounded apprehensive, but he sat up to listen anyway. 

“I’ve found a cure. But it’s…morally questionable.” 

His eyebrow’s furrowed. 

“How morally questionable.”

Tom figured he may as well get it out. 

“You have to kill someone. To split your soul. That way, the curse won’t have a host anymore. And, you’ll be immortal.” 

Harry’s jaw dropped open, and he began to stare off into space, keeping his eyes away from Tom. He wasn’t surprised. He would need time to process. But, he was sure he would come around. He <em>had</em> to come around, there was no other-

“No.” He croaked. 

“No?” Tom said, now just as shocked as Harry had been. 

“No. I won’t do it. I won’t kill anyone. Not to sustain my own life.” 

“But, darling, you have to.” 

“No I don’t.” 

Tom was starting to get frustrated. 

“Yes you <em>do</em>. This is the only way you can live, don’t you see that? It’ll be fine, I’ll find someone, someone bad, a rapist, or a murderer or something-” 

“What, like me, after I do this?” 

His voice was cold. Meanwhile, Tom was only getting more desperate. 

“You won’t even have to do it, not really. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll guide your hand, you just have to say the words. Two words, then we can go back to normal.” 

“What’s <em>normal</em> about that Tom. About killing?” 

“Nothing. But it's necessary.” 

Harry scoffed. 

“It is.” Tom insisted, “Because you have to live. You <em>have</em> to. There is no other way this can go. I won’t let it go any other way.” 

Those green eyes softened. 

“Tom. Please, stop. I said no.” 

He began to protest, but Harry clapped a hand over his mouth. 

“I love you. So much. And there’s nothing more that I want than to- to have a life with you. But I <em>can’t</em> do this. I just can’t.” 

Tom took a deep breath. 

“Okay. Okay, that’s fine. That’s fine.” 

He then walked out of the room, not even thinking about the consequences to himself when he crushed the vial of potion under his heel, and vanished the evidence. 

*

Malfoy had been spot on with his prediction. 

Harry went on the 22nd of January, exactly 6 months after he was admitted. Tom was beside him, holding his hand tightly as he slipped in and out of consciousness. 

The last thing he said before he went was that he didn’t regret a thing. 

Tom did. 

He regretted not forcing him to make that horcrux.