Yo, I'm looking for this one fanfiction, it's a college fic, and Levi is Eren' upperclassmen, but they're forced together because Levi is his assigned tutor? I know for sure they fight once, and Levi works for Pixis and tattoos people? It was on AO3 but I can't find it anymore and it pupsets me 😝
I do know the fic you are on about! It has been deleted from AO3 from what I can gather, but it is available on FF.net. This was such a good fic, here you go!
Eren is a freshman at a university with his friends. His teacher introduces a new program where freshman are assigned a senior to help tutor them for two months. Eren learns that his new partner isn’t exactly easy to get along with. Will something grow between them? Or will this Levi guy hate Eren forever?
A modern au with a normal college student Ben who's dating Hux. Little does Hux know Ben actually has dissociative identity disorder. Hux meets his alter, Kylo, and quickly realizes it's not his Ben. Someway or another Hux decides its a good idea to fuck both of them. He gets off on the idea that he's cheating on Ben. Kylo's aware of it but Ben is completely clueless that he's fucking his alter.
Characters: Reader (Special Agent Y/N Singer), Sam Winchester, Special Agent Castiel Novak, Dean Winchester,
Pairing: AU Dean x Reader (eventually)
Warnings: Dean is an ass,talk of murder, all the usual for this series.
Word Count: 2900ish (a bit short I am sorry!)
A/N: This is a serial killer AU of sorts. Not the typical kind, but it has all the deaths and violence this kinda AU bring with it. It was sorta inspired by Criminal Minds and that is why my agents are profilers.
This series will have deaths, violence, love, heartwarming moments and everything in between. I am hereby warning you for yet another rollercoaster ride led by me ;)
You were angry. You weren’t sure why, but you were furious even as you sat in the small bar with your partner and your college friend. You pretended to know why you were fuming. You pretended it was because Dean had left you in the middle of nowhere on your own. You pretended it was because he had abandoned the case, you so desperately had hoped he would help you and Cas crack wide open.
He had been helpful just like you knew he would be. He had figured the line of projection faster than any of the FBI’s technicians had. Who had all been wrong at that too. No evidence had been found in the place they had suspected the bullet had originated from, but there were clear marks after the footing for the gun as well as empty gun casings in both places Dean had pointed you too. He had been right and he had just walked away. How could he just walk away from a gift like that?
<b>Werewolves:</b> Ravenous animals with human cunning, unable to stop themselves from savagely attacking the innocent.<p/><b>Werewolves on Tumblr:</b> Adorable big fluffy doggies you can date.<p/><b>Vampires:</b> Undead creatures cursed with eternal hunger, driven to kill and drain their victims or share their unending torment.<p/><b>Vampires on Tumblr:</b> Apologetic tragic figures who have to be cajoled into feeding on their willing partners, or chill college students who only take night classes and look disheveled because their mirrors don't work. And in one instance turning into a fruitbat instead of a vampire bat.<p/><b>Dragons:</b> Ancient monsters who leave a path of fire and destruction, collecting the treasure they greedily hoard.<p/><b>Dragons on Tumblr:</b> Wise and gentle guardians who rescue princesses from arranged marriages.<p/><b>Aliens:</b> Mysterious unknowable invaders with knowledge and technology far beyond ours, who treat us with benign neglect if we're lucky.<p/><b>Aliens on Tumblr:</b> Awkward baffled co-workers who find us adorable yet terrifying.<p/></p>
If he had to give a specific time, Stanford would have guessed it started the day after the apocalypse ended. It started off as a small voice at the back of his head, something that was easily ignored and brushed off. Over time, however, it developed. What had started as a stray thought caused by a nightmare slowly grew into something worse. Ford could still vividly remember what the nightmare had been about. It had been the first of many variations of the same dream: he had been standing out in the woods, watching as the sky above him was torn open and all sorts of unholy monstrosities came flooding out, their ringleader being none other than Bill himself. Once the demon had gained a physical form, Ford knew the world was doomed.
The demon had the horrifying ability to manipulate time, matter, the universe itself, something he had taken great pleasure in. Heck, he had disassembled each individual molecule in Ford’s body, shot them across the room and reassembled them in perfect order on the opposite side of the penthouse suite. The demon had repaired Ford to almost perfect health on several occasions, only to slowly beat him down again.
In the dream, it hadn’t been Ford being beaten to a pulp. No, it had been the kids. Bill had the twins chained up as he slashed them, hit them, burned them, drowned them, beat them, crushed them and suffocated them. Ford had been locked into place by tight chains, his head forcibly turned towards the kids at all times. Bill had made him watch as he tortured the children. Ford had screamed and screamed, constantly trying to sacrifice himself to save the children. He knew exactly what the dream meant: the kids were almost tortured and it was all Ford’s fault.
Ford still remembered the utter dread that shot through him when Bill suggested torturing the kids to get the information he wanted. Ford had been terrified, his cry of horror being cut short as Bill turned his body into solid gold. Dear God had Ford been relieved, when he’d been unfrozen, to see the children alive and almost unharmed. He remembered hugging them, and then hugging his old college partner Fiddleford. Ford felt a twinge of guilt as he realised he’d never hugged his brother Stanley. He had barely paid any attention to his brother during the apocalypse. He’d refused to thank Stanley for saving his life until the world depended on it. Even then, he’d had to point out the grammatical mistake in what his brother had said, which resulted in he and Stan having a fight. The whole plan to defeat Bill was ruined. Ford had made a mistake and the plan was thrown out the window.
Ford seemed to have made a lot of mistakes.
As time went on, Ford seemed to dwell more and more on all of the mistakes he’d made in the past. The most catastrophic one seemed to be building the portal. He’d endangered the universe with that thing, and yet he had still refused to listen to reason. Fiddleford had warned him time and time again about the dangers of such a machine, but Ford, blinded by his own selfish desires of fame and fortune, had ignored him. The guilt in the pit of his stomach swelled the more he thought about all of his transgressions.
Eventually, Ford stopped turning up in the kitchen whenever the rest of the Pines family were eating. For a while he’d forced himself to eat, even though he was only eating small portions. As he thought more and more about his past, he recounted all the times Stanley had paid for his mistakes, in a monetary sense or otherwise. He couldn’t bring himself to eat the food Stan was providing, knowing it was just costing his brother more money. He was a grown adult - he had no excuse to live off his brother’s earnings. The children had an excuse - they’d been staying at the Shack for months and were too young to be employed. They’d helped out at Stanley’s gift shop, anyway, which had more than earned their keep. What had Ford done to earn his? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’d spent the majority of the time before Weirdmageddon in the basement, working and dismantling the portal. He’d done nothing but make his brother’s life more difficult. And then, to top it all off, Ford had the sheer audacity to tell Stanley to hit the road as soon as summer was over. He’d never apologised for that, and the guilt continued to eat him away.
As the guilt continued to press down on him, he’d been having nightmares more frequently. He’d barely slept in weeks - not since the kids had gone home. He’d barely seen his brother since then. For the first few days, he’d worked up the courage to get something to eat and sit down in the kitchen with Stan. Then he’d been reduced to getting food and, if he was alone, sitting down to eat or, if Stan was there, taking his food back to his room to eat by himself. He’d only been able to keep that up for two days, after which he’d only get food in the middle of the night, when he knew his brother was asleep. One night, Ford had accidentally tripped and dropped a plate, causing a loud crash. Stanley had been woken up and burst into the kitchen with a shotgun, pointing it at the man he thought was an intruder. The look of sheer irritation on Stan’s face after having been woken up was enough to stop Ford getting food even when Stanley was asleep. He couldn’t risk causing his brother to lose any more sleep.
By now, it had been a week since Ford had last eaten anything and the hunger was starting to become unbearable. It gnawed away at him constantly, making him feel nauseous and lightheaded. It prevented him from getting any sleep. Ford rolled over on the couch and checked his watch. 2:11 A.M. Surely Stanley couldn’t be awake at this hour of the night? It couldn’t hurt just to get a little something to eat, could it? Part of Ford’s mind told him to stay in bed, where he couldn’t make any noise to wake his brother up. His stomach growled furiously, demanding that Ford get out of bed and get something to eat. Despite the guilt still pressing down heavily on his shoulders, Ford swung his legs over the edge of the bed, put his glasses on and forced himself to his feet. The floorboards creaked underneath his weight and the man froze. He waited. Waited for any sign of movement upstairs, indicating his brother was awake. After a solid three minutes, Ford determined that the sound had gone unnoticed and he took a slow, gentle step towards his bedroom door. He was dressed in a red turtleneck and dark brown trousers - he didn’t have any sensible night clothes. As he got to the door, he slipped his boots back on.
Reaching out a hand for the doorknob, Ford paused, his hand outstretched in front of him. In the moonlight streaming in through the window, his six fingers were almost underneath a spotlight. He held his hand closer to his face and spread his fingers out. He counted them over and over again. He’d done this so many times throughout his childhood and adolescent years, always with the slightest hope that he had normal hands. Every time he counted, there were always six. There had always been six and there would always be six. Ford remembered that, as a young child, he had sometimes had dreams where his hands only had five fingers. In these dreams, he was not bullied at school. He was not pitied by the teachers. He was not given any sort of the special treatment that one might give to a child with a learning difficulty or a mental disability. He was treated just as a normal child. Those dreams had been wonderful. He finally fit in at school. He was popular, even. All of the kids who used to pick on him were suddenly his friends and he was happy. Those dreams always ended, however, and Ford was forced back to face the cold reality of his birth defect. He’d eventually come to realise and accept the fact that he was never going to be normal, no matter how hard he prayed.
Ford bit his lip and shook the thoughts from his head, reaching out and turning the doorknob. The door swung open with a creak, one Ford was sure his brother had heard. Again, he paused and waited for any indication that his brother had heard him. Nothing. The house was utterly silent. Releasing a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding, he stepped forward into the hallway. Occasionally, a floorboard groaned quietly beneath his feet, but it wasn’t anything loud enough to warrant any concern. Soon, he turned a corner and entered the kitchen, nearly tripping up on a stray empty can of Pitt cola. Ford rolled his eyes. Even now, aged sixty-something, Stan still couldn’t be bothered to throw his rubbish in the bin. The man knelt down and picked the can up, gently placing it into the recycling bin by the door.
Ford tiptoed over to the fridge and pulled the door open. The bottles of milk, ketchup and soda rattled in the door loudly. He cringed and bit his lip. After a minute, when he’d heard nothing from upstairs, he quickly grabbed a slice of bread and the butter and closed the fridge. Getting a blunt knife out of the drawer and a plate from the cupboard, Ford set the bread down on the plate and started spreading it with butter. He cut the slice in half and pressed the two buttered halves together. He didn’t want to put anything between the halves of the slice - he didn’t want to use up too much of whatever food Stanley had left. Taking a bite of the bread, Ford only just then realised the extent of his hunger. Within a minute, the slice was gone and Ford was debating taking another. He shook his head and scolded himself.
You can’t waste any more, the voice in the back of his mind told him. He’s already given up so much for you. Don’t make him hate you even more.
With a quiet sigh, Ford put the butter back in the fridge and turned to put his plate in the dishwasher. His hand knocked against it and it was knocked from the counter. A loud crash echoed through the otherwise silent house and Ford swore. Damnit. He’d done it again. As he was bending down to pick up the pieces of broken plate, he heard someone else enter the kitchen. He froze in place, feeling the barrel of a gun being placed against his temple.
“Get up.” His brother barked.
Ford did as he was told, horror flooding his mind. His brother was having another memory lapse and seemed to have forgotten that he had a twin brother. This meant that there was a strong possibility Stan would shoot him if he made any wrong moves. Slowly getting to his feet and putting his hands up where Stanley could easily see them, he chewed his lip.
His brother cocked the gun. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
Ford took a deep breath, his hands shaking. “Stanley, I’m your brother, Ford. Don’t… don’t you remember me?”
Stanley only narrowed his eyes. “I don’t have a brother. Stanley Pines died in a car crash thirty years ago. I’m Stanford.”
Ford flinched. Hearing his brother call himself by that name never got any easier. “No, y-you’re not. You’re Stanley. You took your brother’s name - my name - when I went missing. You’re Stanley. You faked your own death.”
Stanley scoffed and pressed the barrel of the gun against Ford’s chest. “Yeah, right. What sort of bullshit are you making up?”
“It’s not bullshit!” Ford exclaimed. He flinched and inhaled a sharp breath as Stanley pressed the gun harder against his chest.
“Yes it is.” Stan snapped. “Now, I want you to leave my property and never come back, otherwise I’m going to shoot you. Do I make myself clear?”
Ford swallowed hard. “B-but-”
In a flash, Stan fired a warning shot at Ford’s left shoulder. The bullet clipped the top of his shoulder, leaving a small wound in his flesh. Ford let out a sharp cry and clamped his right hand down on the wound, stumbling backwards. He looked up to see the barrel of the gun pointed directly at his face. “I said, do I make myself clear?” Stanley growled.
Ford nodded quickly. Stanley grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the back door to the house. He unlocked the door and shoved Ford outside. Ford stumbled and nearly fell over. He turned around just in time to see Stanley slam the door shut and lock it behind him. Ford felt a lump in his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe. He saw Stanley in the window and quickly rushed off into the woods before his brother had the idea to shoot him again.
Ford didn’t get very far, maybe half a mile, before it became too difficult for him to breathe. His shoulder throbbed in agony and the cold night air was making him shiver. He sat down beneath a particularly large pine tree and carefully pulled his hand away from his shoulder. His palm was red and slick with blood. Hands trembling violently, Ford slowly began to tear the bloodied sleeve from his turtleneck. He tied the sleeve around his shoulder as well as he could, letting out a sharp hiss of pain as the wound made contact with the fabric. Gritting his teeth, Ford pulled the fabric tight against the wound and tied a knot with the two loose ends. He leaned back against the tree, taking deep breaths. The effects of the blood loss were starting to get to him. He felt tired and lightheaded. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just take a quick nap?
Ford dismissed the thought and forced himself to get back up, his head spinning wildly. He groaned, placing his right hand against the trunk of the tree to stop himself toppling over. Taking shuddering breaths, he continued towards the main road. Maybe he could walk up the road to find a phone to call a doctor, since he’d never quite got to grips with those ‘cell phone’ things. As he walked, however, his breath became more and more laboured, his vision beginning to swim. His feet began to trip and stumble over the rough earth.
His left foot got caught amongst some particularly large tree roots and he lost his balance. Ford toppled to the ground, his hands barely cushioning his fall. He tried in vain to get back up. His strength left him. Ford lay on the cold, damp earth, breathing ragged and the occasional cough making him shudder. He couldn’t find it within him to get up. He was far too tired. Stanley didn’t remember him, he couldn’t go into town - everyone there still resented him after what he’d done - and he could barely get off the ground.
The lump in his throat returned and Ford choked on a sob. He couldn’t help but feel as though he deserved this. All he’d ever done was make mistakes and hurt people. It was his own fault that Stanley didn’t remember him. He’d erased his brother’s mind to defeat that demon. He figured he deserved to be kicked out. He deserved this treatment. He screwed his eyes shut and gave in to the fatigue. Darkness clouded his mind and his whole body relaxed as sleep took over.
Stanley grunted, locking the gun back up in the cabinet in his room. He muttered under his breath. He eased himself down onto his bed, his back cracking and popping. He was about to lay down again when a photo in a wooden frame on his nightstand caught his attention. It was a photo of himself as a teenager, wearing boxing gloves and playfully punching someone else. The other person in the photo bore a strong resemblance to both himself and the man he’d kicked out of the house a moment ago. Picking up the photo, Stan looked over it. The photo was old and faded, but still clear. He was getting some serious déjà vu vibes just from looking at it.
The words the man had said earlier rang through his mind.
“Stanley, I’m your brother, Ford. Don’t… don’t you remember me?”
Something akin to a bolt of lightning shot through his mind and he gasped. His brother! That was his brother in the photo. His brother… the same brother who had been in the kitchen a moment ago. The same brother he’d …
“Ford!” Stanley leapt up from the bed and wrenched some shoes onto his feet. He tugged a jacket on and grabbed a torch before rushing downstairs and out of the back door. He turned the torch on and ran into the woods. He waved the light around, looking for any sign of his brother. The air outside was freezing, and if Ford had been shot … Stan had to hurry.
“FORD!” Stan called again, his eyes frantically scanning for any sign of Ford. “STANFORD!”
Something glistened against the bark of a tree and Stan shone the light at it. His stomach churned as he instantly recognised the slick, red substance. Blood. That was bad. Picking up the pace and wheezing, Stan kept running. “FORD!!”
A few hundred yards ahead, he came across something lying in the grass. Once the light was on it and he approached, Stan could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat. His brother was lying face down in the dirt, practically motionless. Stan rushed over. “FORD!”
Stan fell to his knees by his brother’s side, rolling him onto his back. His eyes widened as he saw the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage on his brother’s shoulder. Ford was out cold. Stan’s hands were shaking. “F-Ford…?” He put two fingers to Ford’s neck, searching for a pulse. He breathed a small sigh of relief finding that his brother’s heart was still beating. It was slightly weaker and slower than normal, but it was there. Stan shook Ford’s shoulder, trying to rouse him. “Ford, c’mon, wake up!”
Ford only twitched slightly. Stan swallowed, noticing how horrifically pale his brother looked. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his brother up off the ground and carried him bridal-style back towards the house as fast as he could. He was surprised at how light Ford was - he’d expected his brother to weigh more than that. Part of him wondered if he was underweight, but right now that was a blessing in disguise. It made it easier for Stanley to carry him - meaning he could therefore get him to the hospital faster. Ford’s head lay against Stan’s shoulder, the older twin’s mouth open slightly and his glasses resting crooked on his face. His breathing was getting shallower by the minute.
After what seemed like an eternity, Stan arrived back at the house. He set Ford down on the ground beside his car and rushed inside to get his keys. Car keys in hand, he ran back outside and unlocked the car, before heaving Ford up into the passenger seat. Clipping the belt on around his brother, Stan jumped into the driver’s side and jammed the keys into the ignition. He pulled his own seatbelt on with one hand and steered the car with the other, driving out onto the main road and heading towards the hospital.
Ford was met with bright lights the next time he opened his eyes. At first, he thought he was dead. There could have been no other explanation for the sheer whiteness of everything around him. As his senses began to come back into focus, however, he became aware of a repetitive, steady beeping sound emanating from somewhere above his left shoulder. He also became aware of the fact that the area where he’d been shot was rather numb. His head was throbbing slightly and felt as though it was full of cotton wool. He wiggled his toes, managing to regain some of the sensation back into his legs. Something was pricking the inside of his right elbow. He felt as though he were laying down in a bed somewhere. He gripped the blankets, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingertips.
“Ngh…” Ford fought to keep his eyes open, his hands clenching the blankets. He realised that his glasses were no longer on his face - his surroundings were blurred out of focus. “W-who…?”
A grey and pink shape moved into his field of vision. “Ford? You with me bro?” It was his brother, Stanley.
Ford squinted, trying to get his eyes to focus. “S-Stan…?”
He felt his brother hold Ford’s hand between both of his own. “Yeah, I’m right here Poindexter. How do you feel?”
Ford avoided his brother’s gaze, turning his head away. “‘M fine… why are you here?”
Stanley frowned. “What do you mean, ‘why am I here’? You were injured, Stanford, where else would I be?”
Ford shrugged, wincing slightly as he shifted his injured shoulder. “Anywhere else. There’s a hundred places better to be than here, with … with me…”
Stan ran a hand through his hair. “Ford, what on Earth is bugging you so much? You’ve barely talked to me in weeks. You never said goodbye to the kids, you avoid Soos and Wendy like they’re the plague, heck, you won’t even look at me. What’s eatin’ ya?”
Ford tensed up, clenching his eyes shut. “It’s nothing important, Stanley. You have a shack to run, customers to sell merchandise to, don’t worry about me.”
“Soos is watching the Shack,” Stan waved a hand around. “I’m not going anywhere. Now, seriously, tell me what’s wrong?”
Ford was silent for a moment, before letting out a quiet, bitter laugh. “What isn’t wrong? Half the town’s still a wreck, a good few people were severely injured, you lost your memories and it’s all my fault. I ruined everything.”
Stan frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Ford laughed again, his voice full of self-loathing. “I ruined the whole summer. I ruined the kids’ lives. I ruined Fiddleford’s life. I ruined your life, Stanley.” Ford’s voice cracked, tears stinging his eyes. “I just wrecked everything. I always thought that you were the screw-up twin, when it was me all along.”
“Ford, you’re not a screw-up,”
“Stanley,” Ford heaved a sigh. “All I’ve ever done is hurt people and use others for my own benefit. I summoned a dangerous monster just so I could built a portal that would make me famous. I guess Dad was always wrong about who the worthless twin was. It was never you. It was me, they just never realised it.”
“Ford!” Stanley grabbed his brother’s hand. “Cut it out! I didn’t bring you back just for you to beat yourself up!”
“You shouldn’t have brought me back at all!” Ford snapped, tears slowly forcing their way from the corner of his eyes. “I’m nothing but a monster. I caused the apocalypse! I’ve hurt people! Bill should have just killed me while he had the chance. It would have been better for everyone.”
“Stanford Filbrick Pines you stop right there!” Stan shouted. “You are not worthless. You are not a monster. You are not better off dead!”
“Give me one reason why I’m not!” Ford spat. “Give me one good reason as to why I’m not a worthless piece of shit!”
Stan felt his heart skip a beat. Did… did Ford really think all this about himself? “Ford, listen to me. You are not a worthless piece of shit, you understand? You know why? Because even though you messed up, you tried to fix it. You tried to correct the mistakes you made. You helped us defeat Bill. We would have all died if it hadn’t been for you.”
“I brought Bill to Gravity Falls in the first place,” Ford muttered, turning his head away. “I made the biggest mistake of my life and the whole world nearly paid the price.”
“Ford.” Stan’s voice was stern. He gripped his brother’s hand in both of his own. “You didn’t know what Bill was, or what he was capable of.”
“I should have seen him for what he was!” Ford cried “I was an idiot! Anyone with half a brain could have seen that he was lying! I was too blinded by my own selfishness to see that.”
Stan’s brow knitted together, his gaze softening. “Oh, Poindexter.”
Ford let out a quiet, choked sob. “I’m so sorry Stanley…I never wanted to hurt you. Please, just go. Go home, before I hurt you again,”
Stanley briefly considered getting up and leaving, but shook the thought away as soon as it appeared. “No, I’m not going anywhere. You wanna know what really hurts me? Seeing my brother, my twin, beat himself up and tear himself down like this. Yeah, you made mistakes, we all have, but that’s no reason to believe you’re worthless, Stanford.”
Ford bit his lip and cursed himself, feeling tears trickle down his face and drop onto the pillow beneath his head. “Then why did I make so many mistakes? Why did I turn my back on you when you got kicked out? Why did I ignore you for ten years? Why did I punch you after you wasted thirty damn years bringing me back?”
“Wasted? Ford, you’re my twin brother, there was no way in Hell I was gonna leave you in there,” Stanley ran his thumb back and forth across the back of Ford’s hand. “You didn’t deserve to suffer like that,”
Ford turned his head around to look at his brother, attempting to lift his free hand to wipe the tears away. Pain flared up in his shoulder and he let out a sharp hiss. Stanley pulled his own sleeve down and wiped the fabric across Ford’s eyes, drying the tears from them. Ford’s eyes flickered away, but he kept his head turned towards his brother. He felt Stanley run his fingers through his hair soothingly. Ford couldn’t help but shut his eyes. It was calming - it relieved some of the pressure from his throbbing head. He must have looked downright pathetic - a sixty-something year old man being coddled and comforted like a young child - but right now he couldn’t care less. He was tired and in pain.
Stanley couldn’t keep the soft smile off his face. “I love you, ya know that, right? I know you must think I hate you, but I don’t, honest.”
Ford swallowed and opened his eyes. ‘I love you’ was not something anyone had said to him in decades. Well, aside from the twins, of course. He looked at his brother, studying his expression. There was no hint of mockery behind his eyes. Stanley was being genuine. Ford let a soft smile of his own play onto his face. “I love you too, you knucklehead,”
Stan grinned and ruffled Ford’s hair lightly. “That’s better. Now, will you try and get some damn sleep? That bullet did a real number on you,”
Ford’s gaze shifted from his brother’s face to the wound on his shoulder, the smile dropping. “I guess it did, yeah,”
Stanley frowned. “Ford, I’m really sorry,”
Ford waved the concern off, turning back to look at him. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean it. You were having a memory lapse and had no idea who I was. I understand it must have been rather shocking for you,”
Stanley ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but still, I shot you, Ford.”
“It’s okay, I’ve endured far worse with no hospital treatment whatsoever.” Ford took hold of his brother’s hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright, Lee,”
Stan grinned at the nickname. “Alright, if you say so. Seriously, though, would you please get some sleep? You look like crap.”
“Gee, thanks,” Ford deadpanned, a playful smirk on his face.
Stanley snorted. “Just saying it like it is, Poindexter. Get some sleep, it’ll do you good.”
“‘M not tired,” Ford said. He bit back a yawn, although he was sure Stan noticed.
Evidently he did, as the younger twin crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? Well, then, why not just shut your eyes for a bit? These damn lights must be hurting them.”
Ford allowed his eyes to slide shut, trying to focus on the sounds and sensations around him to keep him awake. After a short while, everything began to blur together and he felt himself drifting off. He didn’t bother fighting it. His whole body relaxed as he succumbed to unconsciousness. His facial features relaxed, making him look much younger. The heart monitor continued to beep steadily above his head.
Stanley rolled his eyes. Ford had barely had his eyes shut a minute before falling asleep. He made a move to get up from the uncomfortable plastic chair he’d been sitting in, but stopped. He didn’t want to leave Ford alone, not yet. Not while his state of mind was still rather unstable. And, if he was honest with himself, Stan didn’t want to leave. Ford was hurt and his brotherly instincts were kicking in, making him want to stay by his brother’s side until he recovered. Stan settled back into the chair, already knowing he’d wake up with terrible back ache, before he too allowed himself to fall asleep. Not once did he release his gentle, yet firm grip on his brother’s hand.
Another fic for @skaleigha ‘s Guilty Ford AU. I can’t get this idea out of my head! This one’s probably more angst-y than it should be, but I guess I got carried away
My other Guilty Ford fic, Forgiveness, can be found here.
Plot holes, typos, errors, blah blah blah. Let me know and I’ll fix ‘em.
So, I have gone back and forth from fully shaved head to mohawk for about 20 years. I have gotten every kind of remark you can think of. From the Amtrak bus driver who asked me “Are you gay” without a single word of preamble, to the cancer patient who gave me a hug without a word.
A shaved head on a woman is a sort of message: “I am different.”
I know it can be terrifying for some, but I seriously do encourage all women straight or not, healthy or not, to do this once. It is liberating and enlightening in ways you cannot conceive. I am not joking. Even when it begins to grow back. Even for your closest relationships.
Case in point: my family just after I got engaged to be married to my physically male, non-binary husband.
Remember I have known this boy since the age of 11. Our parents were kind of like “Jesus Finally!” But one week after I got engaged, I shaved my head again because I’d had long hair for a bit and couldn’t deal anymore. I was with my mom, and she says to me “You cannot get married with a shaved head.” I asked why. She said “Please…the wedding is for me. Just be a girl for a short time. Please.” Promise me no shaved head and no combat boots.“
She was paying. I didn’t know what to say.
I never had a good relationship with my mother. It is better now, and there are reasons I would rather not hash out in public, but this…fucked me up. Because I was me, living alone, had a job and a partner, out of college. I was the person I wanted to be and just like that, it wasn’t good enough. From my mother.
It hurt. And a couple days later, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I went to my fiancé and I said, “Babe, mom says I have to grow my hair out.”
He was joking with me, trying to make me feel better. He said “It’s not hard to deal with long hair!”
I gave him a dirty look. “How would you know? You have never had long hair. I fucking hate long hair.”
He said, “If it will make you feel better, I will absolutely grow my hair out with you.”
“What? Like…our wedding is in two years!”
And he did. He did. We got married with full heads of long gorgeous hair. He had his professionally curled the day of. I shaved mine off two days later. He…left his there for a few more years…well five more. And then he took me to a special salon where they donate the hair to cancer patients and hacked it off.
“Beauty” and the concept of “pretty” are cages. They are chains. I am a woman even if I am not female. I am powerful. I made a baby. I wrote books. I dealt with shit you wouldn’t believe. I married a person who is incredible. We have an amazing life. My hair has nothing to do with it.
This pride, if you dare, if you want to see what it is like to know yourself without all that societal bullshit, shave your head. Have pride in that which lies within. If you’re a guy? Grow it out. Do something that people would immediately assign to another gender.
Do it. You only live once. Don’t go to your death thinking “God I wish I had just been me.”
Your educative and informative work about animal behavior and welfare is outstanding: it has helped me to change my perspective towards animal wellfare topics: I approached them with a very black-and-white mindset before,but through your well-thought and informative posts, I realized that the present situation in animal welfare is much more complex. However, this leaves me with many doubts about what groups truly work towards animal welfare, and therefore are worth supporting.(1/2)
There is any set of guidelines you recommend following for deciding which groups to support?
It really comes down to figuring out what agendas and end-goals you’re willing to support, and what practices you’re okay with, and then doing a ton of research. Not just on their website, but who supports them and who hates them and what recent things have they been involved with.
Some things to consider when doing that:
Welfare vs Rights rhetoric:
I always say that people who understand the current political meaning of the term ‘animal rights’ will always say they support animal welfare when asked. The animal rights movement is very different than the push for increased animal welfare. So it’s super important to vet the rhetoric of organizations and look at the wording they use. If they talk about inherent rights, any philosophy by Peter Singer, dominion or domination of animals by man, or compare animal use to slavery and rape, those are clear signs they’re more influenced by animal rights ideology than animal welfare science. Good rhetoric talks about welfare assessments, the five freedoms, and generally sounds more like science outreach than a public opinion campaign.
Involvement with national organizations or community advocacy:
Are they independent or heavily tied in with a national org? Do they work with local law enforcement to do education, or partner with a local college? Associations can tell you a lot about the underlying ethos of the group and if they’re more practical and focused on welfare or a supporting local subset of a larger, more ideology-based group.
Policy on issues you support:
Some animal rights organizations have an end goal of getting rid of all pets and removing them from human dominion, which a lot of people don’t realize. PETA for sure, and also HSUS if you read their messaging closely. Born Free isn’t super anti-pet, but they balance that out by wanting to destroy all zoos and exotic animal captivity, which bothers some people but not others. Some groups are really focused on agricultural welfare improvements and don’t get involved with zoos or pets or hunting. You’ll want to weigh the position statements on the issues you care about against each other and see if you support the way that measures up.
does the organization actually have people from animal industries employed or consulting? Some rescue organizations will say they’re really into solving, for example, chicken abuse - but they won’t have a single consultant or staff member who has worked with chickens to be able to help them make judgement calls or inform practices of places they’re working with. I’ve run into a lot of small organizations who are super proud of having someone with a criminal justice degree who specialized in animal cruelty on their team, but yet can’t list off a single person with professional animal management experience who is working with that specialist. This information can be hard to find but is absolutely worth calling them or sending emails to ask about, because places that really care about welfare instead of ideology will have informed professionals involved.
Why should kids be taught to hate the police? Because there are 2.3 million people in jail in the US right now and every single one was put there by a fucking cop. Some people talk about good cops and bad cops, but a good cop, a cop doing their job properly, still puts nonviolent drug users in jail for many years, totally ruining their lives as they lose their jobs, houses, cars, romantic partners, access to college, and become substantially less employable upon release. A cop doing their job properly still gives homeless people tickets for vagrancy which they obviously can’t pay and when a warrant is issued as a result an officer doing their job properly arrests those homeless people. An officer doing their job properly peppersprays and arrests environmental protesters so that logging companies can clear-cut old growth forests. An officer doing their job properly is evicting a family from their home as you read this because the parents’ jobs were shipped overseas so that the bosses could make eight figures a year instead of seven. Those people will become homeless, vagrancy tickets will be written, warrants will be issued… And then there’s the “bad ones”.
Imagine having to hide your relationship with Sonny while working a case with you brother, Danny
(A/N: All I can say is I’m sorry for being such a crappy blogger. I hope you enjoy this. I’m really sorry)
Imagine having to hide your relationship with Sonny while working a case with you brother, Danny
“See you both in 30,” Danny said before jogging out the squad-room.
“Seeya,” You called after him as you sat at your desk.
You watched him until he turned the corner and was out of site and then you turned back to look at Sonny, who was sitting at the desk in front of yours, facing you. You caught the final seconds of him lowering his head. He had been watching you but obviously, he didn’t want you to know that. You sighed as you watched him for a few seconds, pretending to be busy.
“Are you mad?” You asked.
“Nope,” Sonny said quickly, not looking up at you.
“You totally are,” You contradicted, “Sonny!”
“I’m not mad,” He said once again but took a breath as he was about to say something else.
“Don’t say it,” You warned, recognizing his tone almost immediately.
b/c im still working on content for them, here are some vancouver crowd headcanons, most of which are carried on from the captions on this post:
punk rock. absolutely punk rock.
the reason why there’s now a rule forbidding ‘unnatural and/or lurid colouring of hair’ circa 2014 in the aglionby rulebook.
he exclusively listens to alt-j, glass animals, and got7.
he takes all three sciences (chem, bio, phys) as well as both calculus and statistics, because he hates himself.
the angriest of petitioners. wrote a scathing letter to headmaster child protesting the limit on subjects, and as a result is currently the only aglionby student who takes fourteen (fourteen!) subjects.
buys gourmet sushi from across the aglionby dorms to feed his cat. she doesn’t appreciate it, he says, but is personally offended when one of the others suggests they just buy her normal cat food.
he mans the official vancrewver instagram, and under him, over 80% of it is selfies of himself. occasionally, there’s a shot of the defaced aglionby billboard with henry cheng on it, or a picture of cialina with sicksteve’s personal instagram tagged in the caption, but it’s mostly selfies. ryang’s selfie game is pretty strong. litchfield house was renovated with wall-length windows to give him good selfie lighting.
along with chengtwo, ryang’s closest to henry.
definitely the angriest and most slouching of the crew, to the point that he’s gained a spot in the hall of fame at nino’s for simply the Worst Of The Worst At Aglionby.
champions the swim and lacrosse teams, and gets up at ungodly hours in the morning to train.
he’s on pretty good terms with the mountain view kids. (tj takes joyrides on his motorcycle, confirmed)
the friend who somehow convinces you to do shit you’d never consider sober, and who gets you to drink enough to gain advanced perception of the shadow people in your peripheral vision.
ryang’s a truly renowned drunk who made koh buy him alcohol before he could legally do so himself. sicksteve has a scrapbook of him doing dumb shit at parties. they pass it around every break to remind him to chill out a little.
he broke his lacrosse stick over another student’s (tad! carruthers!) head for calling him a ch!nk, and was not at all sorry for the fallout.
there used to be a video on youtube of him doing shots at a party, and then proceeding to fistfight jiang, but it was taken down upon a teacher’s request. it’s been archived on the instagram page, though, and can be found between a picture of him and leesquared posing next to headmaster child’s porsche, and a video of rutherford doing his homework in the shower.
has little to no interest in advertising himself as a modest student, but has restricted himself to indulge only occasionally in his considered-radical political beliefs.
(ryang is a marxist.) (if you imply in any way that his beliefs reflect stalinist ideals, he will deck you.)
his instagram handle is unironically ryang.gosling, and has been since he was twelve.
he plans to go into law after aglionby, and has big plans for, in his words, revamping the justice system. the other boys relentlessly take the piss out of him for it.
in general, he’s not a fan of gansey, or who he perceives gansey to be, and he definitely isn’t a fan of ronan. he’s pretty fond of blue, though, and definitely dyes her hair to match her name when they get home from venezuela.