fast folk

So I accidentally deleted the ask + forgot who requested a scorpius+drarry barista AU with fluff I’m so SORRY (i’m an idiot) but here’s it anyway, enjoy i guess -


“Scorpius, you are not marrying Harry Potter.”

It was 8 am, and Draco Malfoy was tired. His son - whom he loved very dearly, mind - had decided that 5 am that morning was the perfect time to start hollering at his dad to wake up. And four singing games, one magical performance of floating toys and three filthy diapers later Draco was ready to get on his knees and beg for his well-deserved coffee.

That Harry happened to be the barista at his most frequently visited coffeeshop was a mere coincidence.

Really.

(No matter how many times Pansy had laughed at him for it. It wasn’t Draco’s fault that the Golden Boy made the most amazing lattes known to men.)

“Papaaaaaa,” Scorpius whined, kicking his feet in the air. He had an impressive pair of lungs for a three-year-old. “But I love him!”

An elderly woman standing in front of Draco in the queue send him a smile - as if Scorpius was being endearing instead of impossible.

“Hush, Scorp,” Draco said, bouncing his son up and down in his arms, trying to get him to focus on something else that wasn’t his undying love for the Boy Who Lived. “I’m sure he loves you too.”

Scorpius’ smile was blinding. “He do.”

“He does,” Draco corrected automatically.

When Scorpius took that as his que to continue yelling to everyone in the small muggle coffeeshop that he loved Harry Potter, Draco fought the urge to slam his head through the nearest window.

Merlin, he needed his coffee.

Finally, finally, finally the queue disappeared and Draco was standing at the counter.

Harry, his hair standing in every direction and his impossibly cocky smile shining wide, waved at them. “Morning Draco, Scorp.”

Scorpius, suddenly shy, waved back silently.

“Morning,” Draco quipped, and quickly bounced Scorpius to his right hip so he had his other hand free. “I want a cappu with two shots espresso -”

“Early morning?”

“- and a hot chocolate milk for this tough guy,” Draco continued, unable to keep the smile from his voice.

“Coming right up.” Harry slid over to the coffee-machine and got to work - so uncharacteristically elegant and smooth Draco couldn’t do much else but watch.

He’d seen Harry at it more times than he could count. The way he’d flip the milk carton in the air before pouring it into the can to heat up. How he’d turn around on the ball of his feet to get the coffee beans, how he’d wink at Scorpius when he was melting the chocolate almost magically fast.

Scorpius had made Harry his hero - not because he was the boy who lived, not because Harry had saved the wizarding world ten year ago - but just because of this. His elegance. His seemingly magical way of moving around as if he were floating.

And for a second, staring at his ex-rival, Draco wanted to agree with his son.

Faster than he wanted it to have been Harry had made their orders, slipping it over the counter towards them. “There you go,” Harry said, “oh, and Scorpius -”

“Yeah?” Scorpius said quickly, enthusiastically.

“I love you very much, too.”

Scorpius turned beet-red, and immediately hid his face into his father’s chest.

Harry, smiling from ear to ear, turned to Draco. His face was almost impossible to look at, and for a fleeting moment Draco felt his cheeks warm up. Was he blushing? Oh dear Merlin.

“How much do I owe you?” Draco quickly asked, trying to calm down.

“Nothing,” Harry said airily, “it’s on the house.”

Normally Draco would’ve complained but he needed to leave, now - because dear Merlin he couldn’t stop blushing why couldn’t he stop blushing - and he grabbed the two cups, thanked him, and rushed out as quickly as he could.

It wasn’t until they were outside, Scorpius walking in front of Draco and drinking his hot chocolate, that Draco noticed the little heart written beside his name on the cup.

So when Draco came back to the coffeeshop that next morning, he tried not to think of it like a coincidence. Nor the fact that the hearts on his cup seemed to grow in number every time he came back again.

So his son might not be marrying Harry Potter - but in time, he just might.

2

momo backhugging mina (ノ゜ω゜)ノ

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On this day in music history: April 5, 1988 - “Tracy Chapman”, the debut album by Tracy Chapman is released. Produced by David Kershenbaum, it is recorded at Powertrax in Hollywood, CA in Late 1987 - Early 1988. The young singer/songwriter is brought to the attention of record executive Charles Koppelman (The Entertainment Company, SBK Music) by his son Brian who is a student at Tufts University where Chapman is also attending school. Chapman works with veteran producer David Kershenbaum (Joe Jackson, Supertramp) on her first release. A number of producers pass on working on the project, not sharing Chapman’s vision of how the songs should be arranged and produced. The album is a huge critical and commercial success upon its release, spinning off three singles including “Fast Car” (#6 Pop), and “Baby Can I Hold You” (#48 Pop). Chapman also wins three Grammy Awards for the album including Best Female Pop Vocal Performance, and Best New Artist in 1989. “Tracy Chapman” spends one week at number one on the Billboard Top 200, and is certified 6x Platinum in the US by the RIAA.

There was a post a while back that was hijacked by racist white folks so fast. And it was basically something like “white people aren’t allowed in black spaces”. And the fact that so many  white people got mad at this pissed me off so much! Like no—you guys are not allowed in black/brown or poc spaces in general. And these people don’t even know what “black” spaces are. These are just white people, who see that they are excluded from certain cultural areas/celebrations get all butthurt and wonder why they can’t have a part in it. Well black spaces aren’t meant for white people—poc specific places in general aren’t.

It’s like how lgbt+ bars are not meant for straight people.

Places for girls/women aren’t meant for men.

Black spaces aren’t meant for white people.

And that is to keep certain groups safe and free to do what they want without their oppressors intervening in anyway.

Speaking from a black perspective, we have black spaces to get away from racism. To get closer to our roots, talk about social issues, talk about issues are community faces…etc…etc…stuff only concerning black people. Why white people need to be in an area where we are celebrating/talking about our blackness makes no sense (unless we invite them).

It just baffles me that white people are so offended at the very notion of poc wanting their own cultural safe spaces, that they dare to say shit like “well martin luther king would be pissed or” “I thought segregation was over you hypocrite’. No you idiots—people of color need safe spaces to be away from racist, ignorant ass holes like you. People who cannot grasp why safe spaces are a thing because you’re so used to thrusting your selfishness asses into everything that doesn’t involve you. And half of you don’t give a fuck about poc—especially black people—so why do you even want to come in our spaces? Just so you can bring you pretentious and racist opinions into our groups?

And ooh I can’t wait to see the white people who get offended by this.

Listen

Tracy Chapman, Fast Car (Live)

You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Any place is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we’ll make something
Me myself I got nothing to prove

What we need to be angry about

Ok so let’s talk about the last 3mins of the season final. I would actually implore you to rewatch it.


I know, it might be tough - but really go rewatch it. Notice what Red does.


He does nothing!! Ray Reddington for that entire 2min segment does nothing but let Liz talk. He has only 2 lines:


1. To correct her that he is liquidated rather than broke.
2. That if she wants him to go, he would.


He does NOT confirm or deny that the DNA results are in fact true. He instead let’s Lizzy believe that the results are true so she wouldn’t pursue Kate real secret about him any further.


He just stands there, listens to her, volunteers to leave, listens to her about “family” and then reciprocates her hug.


The last paragraph I just wrote may have you confused and go “ya - lizzington is dead now because of that exchange” or, alternatively, “woot daddygate is confirmed!”


Not so fast folks! Cause in walks Dembe. And for a moment I thought Dembe statement of “you didn’t deny it” could go either way:

1. You didn’t deny it cause it’s true
2. You didn’t deny it cause it isn’t true.


But what immediately follows after Reds “I didn’t (deny it)” response, is Dembe statement of “she still thinks THATS (Red is Lizzy dad) Kate secret”. Which we now understand at that very moment - it isn’t. It’s whatever is in the suitcase that is the big secret.


Red didn’t deny it or confirm it to Lizzy, even as he held her, looking so conflicted - not relieved - that in order to say nothing he neither lies to her or tells her the truth his silence instead opts to keep her safe from the real truth - Kaplan truth (the suitcase) as Lizzy wouldn’t pursue the Kaplan secret any further.


Well the suitcase is in play. Liz will eventually find out what the secret really is. Will be angry with Red for lying to her, which he will promptly say he didn’t confirm to her that he was in order to keep her safe and we are somewhere back at the beginning.


That’s what we should be angry about folks! That we have yet again have not been given any answers and we are heading back to the same boring formula.


Why? Why can’t these writers be bold enough, take leaps of faith and do something that advances the plot by leaps and bounds rather than tiny baby steps??


The only consolation to this shitty / vicious Circle of writing is the tiny snippets of confirmation that Raymond Reddington is NOT the real red. As flushed out by @eaglechica19


So keep the faith Lizzingtoners. Don’t believe Daddygaters your in the right. This (stupid) waste of time Sega of “is / isn’t” he the dad still stupidly continues.

That’s what we should be angry about.

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My new cooking tutorial: Moomin Mushroom Stew. (CC) It’s a simple, easy, quick and super yummy recipe to make! The recipe says you only need 300g of mushrooms, but I actually used around 1500g! It has a really nice, creamy taste to it and if you add rosette potatoes, it gives it a very nice, round taste :)

Green-blooded Bastards: An Argument Against Hemocyanin

Originally posted by georgetakei

A counter-argument to a fascinating discussion that blossomed from @storiesfromstarfleet‘s kickass headcanon on Vulcan skin tone. Namely, why it’s not more green.

That spawned an analysis of the differences in hemoglobin and hemocyanin, and raised the burning question, “If Spock’s blood is really copper-based, shouldn’t it be blue, instead?”

I won’t be rehashing the entire conversation. My friends @elsa-lost-in-translation, @outside-the-government, @starshiphufflebadger, and @gracieminabox each made some excellent points, which you can read if you follow the links. 

I’m here to tell you, in a word -

No.

Spock’s blood is green, dammit, and his skin is… well, what we see in TOS. Fleshy-pinkish-yellow-funky-almost-jaundiced-looking-greenifyousquint.

Keep reading

  • interviewer: can you use html codes?
  • me: yes
  • interviewer: excellent! did they teach you as part of the curriculum?
  • me: *thinks about including italics and bolds and paragraph spacing in smutty destiel stories on ao3*
  • me (nervous laugh, crosses legs, drops two pens): yes - yes, it's included in the curriculum. it's a great curriculum. the best curriculum, definitely.
  • me: please don't check
The Town of Lily Lake

A continuation of sorts of this here ficlet.


Elizabeth “Doc” Watkins is older than she lets on. Not in any significant way; she’s still human, through and through, but she’s gonna maintain for as long as she possibly can that’s she’s under fifty, if only just.

Doc’s been around a while. She ain’t naive enough to think Lily Lake’s the only town in the west, or the world, full of creatures like the faefolk. Lily Lake just happens to be somewhere the Good People feel comfortable showin’ themselves.

Doc has a good workin’ theory on why that may be, but she knows when to hold her tongue. Livin’ in Lily Lake would teach anyone that much.

She ain’t a doctor, not technically. Never got to go to school for it. But a doctor trained her, and more than enough standoffs and shootouts and angry horses and angry fae have tested her skills over the years. So, in Lily Lake, she’s Doc. She’s just about the only human person around who knows– by fifth or sixth hand account, mind you– why the town’s called what it is, not that that’s a particularly fascinatin’ tale.


Sheriff Zach Lucas is older than he lets on. He doesn’t need to do much to keep the peace, other than be present within the town lines; people mostly take care of disputes themselves, however that might end up lookin’. Zach’s been sheriff of the little town for years and years and years, now, and his reach extends the full boundary of Lily Lake. He knows when someone of another Court besides his own steps foot across town borders, when relations between his own Court and the human residents are starting to turn a little sour. Once he would’a been called a King, but Sheriff is just as well.


Lee “Lucky” Byrd ain’t fae, but he’s lived in Lily Lake the whole nineteen years of his life so far. He knows that breakin’ their rules ain’t worth it, how to make deals that put him out on top, when a silver tongue does more good than an iron bullet and when it’s time to draw.

“Lucky, you sure you’re not a changelin’?” Mrs. Bowman asks one day, and Lucky just grins wide and winks at her. Truthfully, he ain’t, though; he’s just adaptable.

He also knows from Doc Watkins how Lily Lake got its name; she looked long and hard at him when he asked, then announced that no one’d ever thought to ask her before. Lucky thinks she’d be the obvious choice of people to question, seein’ as she’s over fifty and lived here most her life.


“Lily Lake used to be called Lily’s Lake,” Lucky tells a girl a few years younger than him, Grace Keller, smug at knowin’ something most the other local kids don’t. “A man named Zechariah Lily bought the whole place, long time ago, when it wasn’t nothin’ but desert. Doc thinks he was one of the Gentry, but there ain’t no proof.”

“Why’s it called ‘lake’ then if it weren’t ever a lake?” Grace asks.

“Used to be a lake just outside of town, so Doc says,” Lucky shrugs. “Guess at some point it just dried all up.”

“You tellin’ me the truth, Lucky Byrd?” The girl asks, suspicious, and Lucky just grins wide and winks at her.


Zach steps out of the sheriff’s station, tipping his hat to the townspeople he passes on the street, human or otherwise.

“Sheriff,” Lee Byrd and young Grace Keller greet in unison, and Zach nods back.


You think Zechariah Lily was Gentry?” Grace asks him, once Lucas has gone past.

“Could be,” Lucky says, his eyes followin’ the Sheriff as he walks away. “Seems likely he’d still be around if he were; they don’t do things like buy whole towns only to leave ‘em, and they don’t die quite so easy or fast as human folk.”

“So you think he’s still here?” Grace’s eyes light up with a curious mischief Lucky knows well.

“Could be,” Lucky repeats, grinning and raising his eyebrows at her. “Zechariah Lily, King of Lily’s Lake, could still walk among us.”

“He could be anyone,” Grace agrees. Lucky chuckles and ruffles her hair.

“Could be,” he repeats again, eyes flicking to where Sheriff Lucas has paused on the steps of the saloon, watching them from halfway down main street.

Lucas holds his gaze until Lucky looks away.

He knows when to hold his tongue. Livin’ in Lily Lake would teach anyone that much.