#I cannot tell you how much I love this

[coldshrugs]

@sunshinemage blessed me with this gorgeous portrait of io 🥺 thank you rory, ily!

[amberrockstar]

you must unmute

Un p’tit mardi dans la vie d’une calico!

Causal friday in a calico’s life!

[whiteshipnightjar]

Zoozve, my beloved

[fan-a-tink]

still making gifs, still appreciating George Rexstrew. it's never enough.

[hellsquills]

Disclaimer: I know about the duffle bag Filbrick threw at him, but you can ignore that if you want

My thoughts below the cut! (this turned into a whole ass fic lmao)

My personal headcanon is that Filbrick is as much of a coward as he is of an asshole. Therefore, he wouldn't have kicked Stan when he did in canon. Probably not for a while after that.

However, he does try to send him to military school. He keeps talking about how this kid needs to learn discipline and respect, and if he's not gonna bring money to the house, then he should at least bring some honor to his family.

Stan obviously does NOT want to go. Not only because it's a pointless war ("what've the vietnamese done to us anyways?") but because he remembers his mother's face when Shermie got drafted and he will NOT make her go through that hell again. Also, he doesn't wanna die!!!! Hello?????

He talks it out over the phone with Ford, who's obviously just as against it as he is. He tells Stan that, if he gets into a PhD program, he could skip military. Stan laughs in his face. It'd be easier to jump off the plane without a parachute.

And so, he comes up with a plan. When he goes to take his physical, he tries his best to botch it. If he is bad enough, if it looks like he can't do it, maybe he won't have to. Unfortunately, the recruiters are far too used to this by now, and they don't buy it. Stan goes home with a recruitment letter hidden in his jacket.

Everything goes downhill after that. He runs away from home, changes his name several times, does some crime here and there... The military is after him, and it doesn't take rejection kindly.

Stan stays out of contact with his family for a few years. He can't risk getting them involved in this mess. They don't deserve it. So he just leaves, without saying a word, in the middle of the night. No phone calls, no notes, nothing. Not even he knows where he's going. But if it just looks like he abandoned them, maybe they'll hate him. That will make them sound more believable with the police. They aren't covering for him, because they genuinely have no idea where he is. It's the best way to keep them safe.

In that time, Ford doesn't stop looking for him. He finds him every once in a while, but only his phone number, and he knows that could give away his brother's location and get the family in trouble. So, against his deepest instincts, he doesn't call.

One, three, five, seven years pass. Stan has been around almost all the country, and is genuinely considering leaving it. Maybe going to Mexico, or Colombia. Those sound nice. Maybe they'll be nicer to him.

He's passing his time and thinking about this in a small town restaurant in wherever he's in (somewhere he's not banned from, yet), when a family enters. He doesn't make eye contact, but he can't help but stare at them: a man and a woman, probably in their 50s, with 7 kids; one must be older than him, the second one around his age, the third one a little younger, the fourth one a teenager, and the last three between 10 and 15, no more. Except for the last three, they're all taller than him, even the mother, and they have various degrees of blond hair. Their clothes (overalls and plastic boots) suggest they must work in one of the farms he's seen around the state. They don't wear any accessories, except for the glasses that the father and four of the kids have. They're talking loudly and laughing. They look exhausted from a morning of hard work. They seem happy. They... look nothing like his family, and yet, he can't help but think about it.

He can't help the sob that comes to his throat. It's loud and messy from trying to suppress it, which obviously makes it worse. He covers his mouth immediately, and at that point he notices the tears that have run down his cheeks. "Great", he thinks, "that will make it easier to hide, for sure".

He doesn't move. He wants to escape, but that will draw even more attention to him, and he hasn't even paid for the food yet (normally he'd leave without paying, but the old waitress was kind enough to give him some extra food when she saw how little he ordered). He settles for not moving, lowering his head and covering his face, hoping that no one heard (unlikely) or cared (very likely).

"Ya'lright, son?"

The voice startles him. I wasn't very deep, but it was close enough to send his body into immediate danger mode. He looks up at the man towering over him, who's standing in front of him at a prudential distance.

"Y-Yeah, yeah, no worries."

He hates how broken his voice sounds. He's spent more than enough time sweet-talking his way out of trouble, he should be better at this by now. The man looks about as convinced by it as he is himself.

" 'lright then. Can I help ya?"

Damn villagers and their welcoming demeanor. If he wasn't a wanted man, he would appreciate it. But right now, it couldn't be worse timing.

"Come get ya food, kids!" The waitress' yell yanks him out of his thoughts.

"No", he blurts out, and he turns to the man. Least he can do is show him some respect and look him in the eyes. "I'm fine, thank you."

The man smiles lightly and nods. "Okay. Welcome to the town."

Stan watches as the man goes back to his table. He wishes he had been more polite, the guy was just worrying about him, but he can't afford it. They already know his face, he can't risk anyone else recognizing him-

"Sweet Mother of God almighty."

Stan turns to his right. One of the kids, the one about his age, is looking at him like he just grew a second head. He's frozen in place, his eyes wide as plates behind thick glasses. He doesn't say a word, and it's getting increasingly unnerving. Was the bruising on his face still visible? Maybe it's more apparent in broad daylight than in the shitty light that last motel had in the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, I- Can I ask your name?"

The fuck?

"No", answers Stan. Considering how nice his dad was, this guy is pretty rude.

"Son, leave him alone." The mother seems to have manners too, good to know.

The guy does pretty much the opposite. He comes closer to him, until he's right in his path, blocking his exit. That can't be good. Stan feels trapped.

"Are you Stanley Pines?"

Well, that's about it.

Stan tries his best to stay still. This guy doesn't look like a cop, not even an undercover one. But he knows his real name, so maybe someone in his family or friends works in the police; or worse, in the military.

"Listen man, I don't know who you're talking about, but that isn't my name. See?" He reaches for his wallet. He pulls out an ID, with a very clear Jackson Cage on it. He makes a mental note to change it soon, just in case his hunch is right and this guy has connections. "Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to pay for my food and leave. Move."

Stan is already on his feet, but the guy hasn't moved. Stan looks him up and down, trying to appear threatening despite his face probably still being a little red from before. He also gauges how feasible it'd be to escape if things turned bad; the dude is taller than him, sure, but he's also as thin as a toothpick, and by the anxious look on his face, he doesn't seem eager for a fight. The real problem would be evading the restaurant's staff and the other costumers, which include eight carbon copies of the guy in front of him. Probably better to try to de-escalate the situation.

"I- I can't let you leave. Please. I know who you are."

This man is making it really difficult to believe he's not a cop.

"No, you don't. I'm new in town. Move."

"Listen, I-"

"Move out of my way."

"I know your brother."

The words are like a bullet between his eyebrows.

"You look just like him-"

Against his better judgement, he quickly grabs he guy and pins him to the wood in between the booth benches, arm to his throat. If he knows Ford, he knows too much. God he just wanted to have lunch.

The commotion is immediate. He doesn't break eye contact with the guy who's grabbing his arm, whose strength is frankly surprising. He can hear, however, the screams from the dad and the siblings, as well as a couple of gasps from the other costumers. This is not going to go well, but fuck that. He's escaped worse.

"Stop!", the guy shouts as he keeps Stan's forearm from blocking his airway. "Don't hurt him! Don't get closer!"

It takes Stan a second to process what he said. The first part, sure, who wouldn't shout 'stop' when you're being attacked? But the second half doesn't make sense. Is he protecting him? The attacker?

Whatever it is, it works. The family stops in their tracks, still very ready to attack if needed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the three younger kids moving closer to their mother. For a split second, he feels a pang of remorse for the scene he just caused.

"Hang up the phone, Clarisse, it's okay. Please."

Stan looks in the direction the guy was talking to. Right behind him, the waitress reluctantly puts the phone down.

He looks back at the guy. He looks a little shaken up, probably from the impact his back (and his head?) made with the wooden plank, but he doesn't look scared. He almost looks... sympathetic? Stan is confused as hell.

"I know who you are", the guy whispers, low enough for Stan to hear alone. "You're Stanley Pines, and you have a brother named Stanford. I know him, okay? He's my friend. I met him a few years ago in a quantum physics congress and we've been talking ever since. He told me about his family in New Jersey, and about you. About how he hasn't seen you in years, and how he was trying to find you, to no avail."

Stan is gradually loosening his grip on the guy's neck, who takes a deep breath. He should know better, but- shit, hearing that Ford was looking for him was not what he expected. Even if he doesn't know yet if this guy is lying out of his ass, it's enough to make him doubt.

"I know you were called to Vietnam. He told me. I spent a week with him in his place when he found out, he was unconsollable. When you ran away, he called me. He knew what it meant for you and he thought he'd never see you again, whether you got caught or not. All because of that stupid war." Stan is now trembling a little, he knows it. This guy must know it too, with how close they are. If he stays here any longer he'll break down, but he can't move. Anything to hear his brother's name a little longer. "I know what it's like. Three of my cousins were drafted last year, and I know at least one of them won't be coming back home. Please... let me help you."

Stan meets his eyes. They're green and brown-ish, not unlike the immense fields he's seen in his last journey, the one that led him to this town. With the years, he's learned not to trust beautiful eyes, because they are better at hiding. These ones, however, seem serene and honest, just like his words, and he can't help but believing them. This guy, whoever the fuck he is, knows just about enough.

Stan lowers his right arm. The guy still has his hand on it, but this time is much less defensive and much more comforting. He doesn't complain.

"My name's Fiddleford McGucket, and I'm gonna help you find your brother."

______________________________

Essentially, after this Fidds calls Ford as if nothing happened (per Stan's request, since he's still paranoid about the police tracking his calls) and asks him to come to Tennessee. Ford argues that he's very busy and all, but Fidds convinces him in the end.

Obviously the twins have a dual breakdown and cry their heart out. In this AU they're much less emotionally constipated lol

Ford tells Stan that he's gonna build a house in a small town in Oregon as a part of his research, and asks him to move in with him once it's finished. Stan, of course, accepts.

In the meantime, Stan stays in the McGucket farm and helps them out as a way of laying low. He has a great relationship with his family, and they're very proud of him for what he did (i believe that the McGuckets are hippies at heart, and they're VERY anti-war, especially when it already took three of them)

I don't know how much of the canon storyline would this AU follow, but it's pretty much your average Mystery Trio AU with some different backstory

[pisces-swirlix]

me: damn i’m so excited for the weekend

coworkers: me too! got any fun plans?

me, sweating nervously: haha i guess

coworkers: nice! what are you up to?

me, really just looking forward to reading the weekly updates of my favorite fanfics: um. sleeping. and walking. yeah

[harrisonlogist]

It's just me, George and George's iconic purple jacket against the world

[goldom]

Stelle completely blissed out

[oh-great-authoress]

WHERE IS THE LIE

tired: bradley takes after goose in his looks, his fashion sense, and his singing ability

wired: bradley takes after goose in the face he makes every time he gets roped into mav’s bullshit

[akai-anna]

it's been a while on my rewatch, but i'm watching the fake wedding case and... can we just talk about how shinichi's reaction is so different in the anime compared to the manga?

bland. boring. WHERE IS THE FEELING IN THIS. just. No.

THIS THO

SMITTEN. BESOTTED. A TRUE SIMP. JUST LOOK AT HIM. HE'S A BABY YOUR HONOUR. BABY IN LOVE!!!!

bonus: shinichi peeking at ran with a blush on his face at this bit (and ran blushing too, pretty please)

We Were Robbed.

[not-poignant]

Hey! It is so interesting to me when people hate on things created by the people they hate (not bashing here just wondering, for each their own). It is just for me it always was the same thing as - my country is run by terrible people, but there woudn't be the place where I can feel more at home than this room I am in. Same always was with HP. I will hate Rowling for every shitty thing she said/did, but hp fanfics/books will always be my safe haven. It's not hers anymore, it's mine.

Anonymously coming into a trans person's private messages to tell them that hating on the creations of the most famous transphobic creator in the world is 'interesting' to you as though this is merely a thought experiment and not something with tangible stakes is a choice, anon.

Here's the thing. JKR isn't dead, she's not a philosophical concept (like a nation), she's not a government. She's a living person still using the profits of her creations to hate on and harm trans people and actively influence trans dehumanising laws.

Anyone who gives her money via buying her books or merch actively and explicitly contributes to these actions and this hate. I don't think your analogy is comparable, so I'll give you another: It would be like if you were a domestic violence victim, and I was a huge fan of Chris Brown (a very famous domestic violence abuser) and went into your personal space to anonymously tell you how 'interesting' it is that I can separate the art from the artist. That his music is 'mine now' while fully knowing that a domestic abuser is benefitting from my listening to his music and spreading this rhetoric about him. I'll tack on a 'but he's bad' to cover my bases, but that's it.

Just...why.

Our lives are not thought experiments. It's not 'interesting' that many trans people can't and won't separate the art from the artist while the artist actively uses the money from the art to harm us and increase hate crimes against us. It's devastating that more people don't understand why this is such an issue.

HP is not yours, anon. Not in the same way it's JKR's. You don't own the IP. You can't use the profits from it to help marginalised people. You can enjoy it in your mind, and privately, and among folks who feel the same way as you, but speaking about it favourably in public with zero caveats allies you with the most public and infamous transphobic mascot and influential figure in the world whether you like it or not. Even with caveats, it still harms more trans people than it helps.

Being reminded of the person actively working to increase the number of draconian laws around our rights, who has the endorsement of Putin and has empowered trans haters in the US, is not an 'interesting' little experiment for me, it's actively painful and hurtful. I'd rather you just bashed outright so I could delete the anon message rather than explain why our lives are interesting philosophical think pieces.

If this is what you're choosing to do with the part of HP that belongs to you and is now yours, by anonymously coming here to tell a trans person these things as though you expect any answer than the one I'm giving you now? Well, that sucks too.

Enjoy the IP and make it yours if you must. Stop telling trans people about it anonymously. And if you can't stop telling people how much you like HP, for god's sake, warn them first so they can decide if you're safe enough to keep interacting with.

[raticalshoez]

i'm having hyperfixation drought so i did what i did best and created a crossover episode

[cupophrogs]

I know it's random as hell, but I gotta ask, does drew listen to lady gaga on his phone? I was listening and he have the chaotic vibe of her songs

Yes actually! However

The Doobie Brothers are far better to boogie to!

[introspectivememories]

god i know i said i was tired of making eveerything sad but just imagine timber those first few months of reconnecting and they're both drunk on tim's boat, laying on the deck staring up at the stars and bear turns over to look at tim, his eyes are sad and wet, and he reaches out to touch tim's face as if to make sure tim is really there and not an illusion and tim whispers, "bear?" and bernard smiles a little brokenly and goes, "so how long do i have you for this time?"

[littlebug-boy]

I dont think anyone understands the level at which i love fantasy high, this shiw means the fucking world to me

I relate to every character in a different aspect and just their friendship and the way they all care so much for eachother. I think about them constantly and the characters and the cast all bring me so much joy. I could re watch it a thousand times and never get sick of it

Yall just dont get it

[1650-1793-1941]

Aziraphale had always been able to feel when a place was loved. As an angel, love was very much in his remit. Often it was just a sense of warmth in a local coffee shop, or the infusion of countless weddings into the stone walls of a church keeping damp at bay. Tadfield had been a special case, Adam’s love for the place multiplying the feeling to almost unfathomable levels, but every close-knit village across the country hummed with a similar, albeit it far subtler, joy.

It was therefore not particularly strange to settle into the Bentley, reading himself for the drive to Edinburgh, and feel a wave of love from the vehicle. Crowley had loved the car for ninety years. That kind of attachment couldn’t possibly not leave a mark. Usually when Aziraphale was in the Bentley, he was sitting beside Crowley, whose terrible emotion processing skills worked hard to suppress the feelings, but now Aziraphale was alone he could tell the car was so clearly cherished. He couldn’t help but smile, running his hands over the leather of the steering wheel to reassure the car that he’d take good care of it, because it clearly mattered to Crowley so deeply.

It was thirty miles out of London that Aziraphale started to become aware that there was something slightly different about the love infused into the Bentley. Usually it went one way, a place was loved but it couldn’t really love back. The car, however, seemed almost fond of him. It played classical musical when Aziraphale asked it nicely, the horn honked merrily rather than with the aggression Crowley usually forced from it on the rare occasions he thought it worth using at all. The travel sweets and the new yellow detailing, the comfortable and warm leather seats, the safe driving speed – Aziraphale could feel the Bentley desperate to please him.

It was only after Crowley checked in through the radio that Aziraphale realised what was going on. It seemed mad to even think it, but it was the only logical answer. Crowley’s love, not just for the Bentley but for Aziraphale specifically, was laced into the fabric of the car, so strongly it was echoing back. He would never have believed it, but the same feeling he got from the car was threaded under Crowley’s words. He might have complained about the yellow paint and the travel sweets, but really he was checking in to make sure Aziraphale was alright. After millennia of existing together, Aziraphale had learnt to read between the lines. So when Crowley asked him to drive faster, he knew that didn’t mean put yourself in danger to get my car back to me quicker, it meant get yourself back to me as fast as possible, because I feel better when I know you’re safe. Aziraphale knew better than to point it out, but he also wasn’t going to protest – he loved a good caper, but he knew he’d also feel better when he was back at the bookshop. Back with Crowley.