#I was so invested in this guy burning bridges and then disappointed when Bad and Bagz figured him out lol

[shadowslocked]

Mmmmm it’s hard for me to put into words but I feel the reason why people have such a hard time with this Q!Foolish arc is that it doesn’t really fit easily into most arc/tropes what have you

Is Foolish being manipulated and used? Yes, a lot of Cucoruchos language is very off and clearly intended to pull Foolish in. Foolish also suspected this and wanted to see what would happen anyway because he thought it would be fun (unsure if he means in a meta or character way).

Is Foolish probably in some danger by interacting closely with the Federation meaning it’s harder to pull away? Possibly but I don’t think Foolish is overly concerned about his safety at the moment considering his response to a possible trap for him was to go “Let’s check it out :)”

Is Foolish a neutral/amoral immortal who doesn’t fully grasp the consequences of his actions? Most likely yes given he’s asked twice now if he’s made the wrong choice, but he’s not so amoral that you can say he doesn’t care about Tazercraft or what happens to the other islanders.

There’s no way for Foolish to know about the harsh conditions of the prison or about Tazercrafts traumatic past? Yes, very true, Foolish largely has a positive view on the Federation and likely assumed they would be okay and returned later like Max was BUT ALSO dude had no way of knowing that and you know what they say about assuming. Whether or not he knew Tazercrafts past prior, he doesn’t seem to grasp the seriousness of that trauma when talking about it with Fit

Tazercraft likely would have been arrested anyway? Yeah more than likely and while I do think it’s the Federation setting up a decoy to take the heat from them it’s still a dick move on Foolish’s part

Foolish has been completely honest? Foolish has been pretty upfront with most information BUT he is also lying about doing it to keep Richarlyson safe and has been keeping the fact it was Cucorucho that hired him a secret. So yes, Foolish isn’t a complete liar but he has lied because he knows the true answer wouldn’t be satisfying to the others

But he can’t tell the others? As far as I have seen Foolish was never threatened or sworn to secrecy, you might say he’s doing it because he does genuinely believe the Federation doesn’t want him to tell but it’s also just as likely Foolish just knows people would be even angrier with him if they did know the truth

TLDR: basically Foolish is very weird in his arc because it’s not a complete villain arc (or at least my understanding of one) but his actions are also not good either but also Q!Foolish could have a very different view of what’s happening due to his immortality but also that doesn’t change that he hurt Tazercraft but also he does care about them but also he’s a silly guy

[unexpectedreylo]

Fandom & The TROS Press Tour

Warning:  common sense incoming.  If you’re looking for the usual millennial/zoomer Tumblr word salads, that’s not what I’m serving.

I get that some fans, particularly fellow Reylo fans, are feeling a little let down by the TROS press tour.  At least they sure are on Twitter.  I for one am not invested in “trio discourse” because I’m predicting it’s going to be largely the first act of the film.  It’s going to be The Goonies or Stranger Things with adults, with Rey as the Eleven and Poe the Steve Harrington and BB-8 a droid version of Erika, etc..  I can buy that after hanging out together for a year in a war situation, the crew would build a strong friendship.  Fine.  I don’t think though it’s going to be all peachy keen because something will draw Rey and Kylo together again.  It’s all there in the trailer and the interviews.

But that also means the Reylo relationship has to stay under wraps, meaning the dreams of lush photo sessions and banter-filled joint interviews are not going to come true.  It sucks but that’s how it is because of the big Will They Or Won’t They way they’re telling this story.  Maybe it’s something Lucasfilm needs to think about when it is going to tell romantic storylines in the future.

What Lucasfilm needs to think about even more is recognizing that fans LOVE seeing their faves all together on these press tours.  It’s important to them.  I believe what’s feeding this disappointment is the knowledge this is the last time the ST cast is appearing together but some of the key favorites are not there.  Adam is spending every other day promoting Marriage Story or The Report, but has only done one TROS appearance.  Ever.  Granted it’s an unusual situation to be promoting three movies at once, one of which is likely to score him an Oscar.  He’s got obligations to three studios and maybe he feels the other films need his attention more than TROS, which will make a crapload of money no matter what and he can’t say very much about the film anyway.  When the first trailer dropped, he was busy doing Burn This.  Now it comes out he won’t be doing the full cast show with Jimmy Fallon next week for some reason (probably needs to promote Marriage Story in Kamchatka).  Nobody can predict if someone’s career is going to explode, but I think going forward, Lucasfilm needs to secure firm commitments from these guys beforehand.

Disappointed fans are now turning their frustrations on John and Daisy.  Whatever John had to say about TLJ, he probably should’ve kept it to himself.  I see that as a result of two years of constant social media haterade.  But let me offer this perspective as a fan who has been through three trilogies.

First off, you must accept that your faves are going to at various points let you down.  They are going to do or say things you won’t like.  Just about everybody in Star Wars in all of the trilogies have annoyed me at one point or another.  There are some (I won’t name names) whom I don’t like even if I love their characters.  It’s okay.  I’ll also point out that just about all of the major players in Star Wars have bitched about it over the years.  Boy is the GFFA alumni association full of complainers!  There’s a reason why I think it should be mandatory that anyone hired to work in a franchise series watch Galaxy Quest.

Actors can be disappointing in a lot of ways.  They are among the most flawed people you’ll ever encounter:  insecure, outer-directed, people pleasing, neurotic, etc..  You’re spending your life hiding behind characters for a reason.  Not to say they're bad people.  But they’re definitely a different breed.

All of that said, these guys are under a tremendous amount of scrutiny.  We’re not scrutinized the same way, not even in an era of social media.  Adam’s a consummate professional and so is Oscar, but both have been in this game for a long time.  Adam is very adept at sidestepping controversy; he never lets anyone hang the baggage associated with people he’s worked with around his neck.  But even he steps in land mines every now and then.  

You also have to remember reporters are not always honest.  I started calling them Darth Media during the prequels era for a reason.  “Journalists” will often twist words, take things out of context, or even make stuff up just for the controversy and clicks.  Making matters worse is ever-shifting goalposts of what’s not “problematic.”  Social media mobs eager to “cancel” and the media lie in wait to see who they can destroy.  It’s a sport for them.  Opening your mouth is precarious in this kind of environment.

Which is what IMO happened to Daisy with The Guardian.  Sorry but that was a trap.  If you saw the author’s tweets (not going to link to them but you can look them up), she was getting pats on the back for the catty jealous Mean Girl b.s. attempt to make Daisy look bad.  Think...here you are, just there to promote your lightsaber swinging epic, and all of a sudden the interviewer starts making personal digs at you, implying you got where you are only because you’re white and your folks weren’t living under a bridge.  Worse yet, the interviewer tries to put a wedge in your close friendship with your co-star.  No wonder the British press has a reputation for being mean-spirited.  And of course you’re going to be caught off your feet which was the goal.  I’m really, really surprised those criticizing Daisy didn’t see through it. 

I’ve been through this all so many times, I’m almost numb to it.  Maybe one day you’ll be too.

[7-wonders]

Service With a Scribble

Summary: Duncan’s a dick to a cashier, and (Y/N) decides to get back at him with a healthy dose of kindness.

Word Count: 4063

A/N: This got way longer than I thought it would, so I made it a full-length imagine. Enjoy!

Based on this ask from Anonymous: 

For the coffee shop AU: Duncan is a sourpuss in the mornings, the barista notices how he treats the cashier so they end up drawing cutesy things on his cup to “brighten” up his day (but also to tease him a bit). Duncan is about to complain but the drink was the best he’d ever had so he lets it slide and holds the drink in a way to hide the drawing. This continues for weeks, the drawings getting more elaborate until one day they stop and the drink is subpar. 1/3

Duncan asks about the usual barista and finds out they’re just out for the day. The next day there is no drawing but the drink is excellent. This continues for a few days and Duncan gets concerned, he’s formed a weird bond with this barista and sort of loves the weird stranger-ship they had. He asks to meet the barista and is immediately infatuated with them, but the barista seems subdued. 2/3

Then I would imagine Duncan doing everything in his power to brighten the barista’s mornings, and then of course they fall in love and happily ever after lmao. Sorry this is quite long, but I love coffee shop AUs

He’s not a morning person, at all. 

Duncan supposes that most people don’t enjoy mornings, but that fact doesn’t really matter when it’s his morning that’s less-than-enjoyable. His routine is always the same: wake up, stumble to the bathroom and attempt to get ready without falling asleep again, and drink ungodly amounts of coffee until he starts to feel almost human again. The coffee at his office is subpar, which is the norm in all offices across the DC area (and in all offices around the world, but again--his problems only apply to him, at least in his mind). Since Duncan is incapable of making his own coffee without burning it, he has to wake up even earlier in order to get coffee at his favorite coffee shop on the way to work.

This particular morning is especially rough for the mogul, who drank one too many whiskeys at a charity event for the Shepherd Freedom Foundation last night. The expensive alcohol created a hangover that he hadn’t experienced since college, and Duncan prays that this isn’t related to the gray hairs he found speckling his facial hair last weekend. He refuses to take his sunglasses off as he walks in the undercast Metro weather, only folding them up into his coat pocket when the soft lighting of the coffee shop makes it bearable to not squint. The mere smell of roasting coffee beans acts like a drug for him, giving him the strength to make it to the front of the line. The indie music filtering softly through the speakers, the ambiance, the local artwork: none of it matters in this moment.

The cashier is new, or at least new to this shift. Duncan’s never seen this short man with bright blue hair before, and he’s not pleased that his order will not be automatically known as it is to the rotating door of familiar cashiers he’s seen before. The employee stutters his greeting, looking down at the register as he asks Duncan for his order. Sighing tempestuously, Duncan forces his eyes to not roll as he places his order. 

“Large Americano, three shots.” Duncan doesn’t have time for flowery language and polite small talk, curtly speaking and already passing a crisp five to the cashier: he’s had the price of his order memorized for months, now.

“$1.45 is your change--oh no!” The cashier gasps, hands scrambling to pick up the change that he’s dropped on the counter. Duncan glares at him, nearly yanking his money back into his waiting hand. 

“Thanks,” Duncan spits sarcastically, “your complete and utter lack of a brain has made my day so much better.” He knows he’s being unnecessarily rude to this person who already goes through enough shit while working in the service industry, but the anger floods through him quicker than he can count to ten. 

The barista, who is also working her first morning shift after two months of being the afternoon barista, rolls her eyes at this stuck-up guy who thinks he has the right to talk to Zack like that after a simple mistake. That’s one of the things (Y/N) hates the most about this city: all of the rich white men who believe they’re so much better than everybody else solely due to their last names. An Americano is not difficult to make, so she busies herself with a different pursuit as the espresso steams. Uncapping the permanent marker with her teeth, (Y/N) decides that this man could use a little laugh to cheer up his day.

“Large Americano, three shots!” (Y/N) calls, setting down the coffee on the front of the counter. She’s a little disappointed that she can’t wait to see this customer’s reaction, but she’ll be in deep shit if she doesn’t get this order into the suppliers before 10, so (Y/N) disappears into the stockroom.

Duncan picks up his drink, ignoring the scalding of his taste buds as he takes a long drink of his long-awaited drink. His eyes widen, but not due to the sudden lack of feeling in his mouth. This, Duncan reluctantly admits to himself, is the best damn Americano he’s had in a long time. Examining the cup, his expression quickly morphs into one of confusion and burgeoning anger. His order’s written on the paper cup, but there’s also something else: a drawing. 

It’s easy to tell that this was quickly done, a doodle with some thought behind it. There’s a little stick figure that Duncan assumes is meant to be him, an angry expression and what looks like a couple of dollars in his balled-up stick fist evidence enough for him. There’s a sun above the drawing of him, peeking out through the rain clouds that hang directly over the drawing’s head. A little note accompanies this Picasso’s masterpiece, the nice handwriting reminding him to “cheer up, it’s Thursday!” 

Duncan grits his teeth, having half a mind to complain until he gets whatever barista fired, but another drink stops that thought. Although he’s never had a bad coffee here, this particular drink, by whichever particular barista decided to try and be funny, surpasses any expectations he previously had. Plus, the longer he looks at the cup, the more he has to fight the smile that threatens to fight its way onto his face. However much it hurts him, Duncan...supposes he could let the issue slide. For now, at least. 

He can’t find whoever made his coffee, the only employee around being the cashier who is still warily watching Duncan out of the corner of his eye. Oh well; if they work here, they’ll be bound to make Duncan’s coffee again. On his way out, he pauses right before he opens the door. 

“Sorry...about earlier.” He cringes at how the apology comes out, but the cashier nods slowly.

“Have a nice day.” When the door closes behind Duncan, the cashier scoffs and angrily scrubs the countertop. “Dick.”

//

Duncan’s visits to the little coffee shop three blocks away from Gardner Analytics only increase in frequency, the brunette sometimes finding himself there multiple times a day. He knew almost everything about this barista that had managed to captivate him from the first day that little cartoon had showed up on his coffee cup. Their shift, however long it was, always ended by 11; his coffee was just fine if he showed up in the afternoon. They were quick-witted, managing to create more and more elaborate drawings with each day that passed (Last week, Duncan had actually laughed when he turned the cup around to see that the logo had been turned into Batman--a topic the customer before him had been enthusiastically speaking to the cashier about). 

Sometimes the drawings were funny, little jokes that only Duncan and his mysterious barista would know. Other times, they were quite beautiful. Miniature cityscapes of a dreary Washington, made vibrant by the multiple colored markers used to draw the scene. A silhouette of a bridge, a lone person standing on top of it while a little boat floats beneath. That had been a particular favorite of Duncan’s, the only pop of color coming from the red balloon the person on the bridge was holding. He had taken up the habit of saving these cups, carefully washing them out and displaying them in an empty cupboard in his empty apartment that greeted him with nothing but silence every night (fuck, he really is lonely).

The one thing that Duncan still does not know, however, is who this barista even is. Everyday he receives the best coffee he’s ever had along with a personalized cup, and everyday he can never manage to catch who it is that’s drawing on his cup. He starts to think that all cups have drawings on them, which would make sense if it weren’t for the few times his name had been included in the design. Maybe his barista designs them when they’re sitting in the back?

(He’s right, but he doesn’t know that it’s become as much a part of her morning routine as counting the tills and turning on the ‘open’ sign. She has a stash of Sharpies now, all in a variety of colors that remain tucked in her bag until she has the chance to use them on her favorite customer’s cups. She’s not sure why she’s become so invested in providing a smile to this man’s day; maybe it’s to spite him, or maybe it’s because, for that moment when his eyes light up and his gaze searches for the artist he’ll never find, the one who watches sneakily from the back as he attempts to finally catch her in the act, she feels her heart flutter in a way that it never has before.

He doesn’t know, and he won’t know, she constantly tells herself. He’ll stop coming one day, or get sick of the drawings and finally complain like he should have on that first day. It will stop, and so will the way her breath catches in her throat when the door jingles open and his bright blue eyes are revealed from behind his reading glasses--a new addition to his wardrobe, although she would never admit to knowing enough about him to have realized that he suddenly started wearing glasses.)

//

The sixth time this routine, this dance of Duncan looking for (Y/N) after (Y/N) presents his large Americano in a newly designed cup, has happened is when her coworkers start to tease her about it.

“He totally likes you, y’know?” Marina, a pastry chef who likes to work early mornings, asks. Her large brown eyes stare (Y/N) down as she becomes flustered, shaking her head and focusing intently on scrubbing the coffee grounds out of the bottom of the industrial sink. 

Duncan had left maybe ten minutes ago, his search once again proving fruitless after she quickly made his coffee and then just had to go wash the dishes. It’s become a game for her coworkers, all of them giggling as they slyly watch to see if Duncan will ever catch her or, the more likely case, if (Y/N) will allow herself to be caught.

“Please, he’s just a customer. He doesn’t even know who I am,” (Y/N) says, shrugging off the possibility.

“Uh, are you blind?” Jeremy, another barista, chimes in. “He looks for you every single day, sometimes twice a day. He always comes in at the exact same time, and always looks at your drawing before trying to see who made his coffee which he never will, since we make the coffee behind the order window.”

“Plus, if he was ‘just a customer’ then you wouldn’t draw on his cups like you do,” Marina says.

“Did you two plan this out?” (Y/N) asks, throwing the rag in the towel bin and putting her hands on her hips.

“It’s only a matter of time before one of you gives in, and my bet’s on you.”

“My bet’s on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” Jeremy says, placing a tea on the window and calling out the order.

“Yeah, well prepare to be waiting for a long time.” Grabbing two trash bags that need to be taken to the dumpster, (Y/N) sticks her tongue out at her snickering coworkers before opening the back door with her hip and disappearing into the mid-morning sun.

//

Every logical part of Duncan’s being screams at him to stop this odd infatuation with the person who makes his coffee and takes enough care to go out of their way and personalize a cup for him, but he just can’t. Nobody’s ever cared that much, which is a conversation for the therapist that he’ll never go to see. In a way, he feels like he knows this barista, like they understand him. It’s stupid, and Duncan’s sure the drawings are just a way for the bored employee to pass the time until they can leave, but all logic leaves him whenever his thoughts land on this person with no face. He can’t stop how his heart speeds up when he enters the coffee shop, hoping that today will be the day where the mystery finally unravels.

It’s Thursday, exactly a month after the first time Duncan found that little stick figure version of him on the back of his Americano. The date, this little ‘anniversary’ that Duncan wasn’t aware he had been anticipating, is not lost on him as he enters the familiarity of the coffee shop he’s come to know so well. After his less-than-stellar first impression last month, he had quickly come to know the cashiers extremely well. Still, none of them would divulge the name of his favorite barista, claiming that it wasn’t their place to do so. 

He’s going to do it, he’s decided. Today will be the day that he finally asks to meet his barista (his barista, a misnomer he’s had to use whenever he thinks of the artist whose name it seems like he’ll never learn. It’s probably uncouth of him to be claiming this person who he’s never met, but he can’t help it.) Placing his order, Duncan stands next to the counter and tries to hide how impatiently he’s waiting for his coffee.

The first thing he notices is that there’s no drawing on his cup. He frowns slightly at this sudden deviation from the routine that’s been cultivated, but assumes the shop must just have been busy all morning. His barista, he surmises, likely just didn’t have the time to work on a drawing. 

Duncan hadn’t realized how refined his taste had become to the large Americano that had been made for him daily by only one person, almost recoiling when he takes a sip of his drink. It’s not as if it’s bad, but it’s not the same as how he’s had it everyday for a month. Like it was before he got that first cartoon, his coffee is just fine.

Walking back up to the cashier, Duncan hardly waits for him to look up before he’s speaking. “The barista, the one who normally works this shift?” Duncan tries, and fails, to sound like he’s not that interested in the question that he’s asking, and it goes understood in the unsaid second part of his question. The cashier looks conflicted, like he’s not sure which information would be okay to share.

“She had to take the day off today, some sort of family issue.” Duncan’s chest warms at this small gift he’s been given, knowing now that he’s her (whoever she may be) customer.

“Oh...” Duncan trails off, not quite sure what to say.

“She should be back tomorrow? I’m not sure though,” the cashier offers helpfully. 

“Thanks.” Duncan leaves reluctantly, only reassured by the renewed vigor to seek his barista out tomorrow.

The next day, Duncan’s on high alert for any sign of the woman he’s come to care deeply for. He’s not sure what he’s looking for; a ponytail, or a soft figure that’s utterly feminine? He doesn’t know what she looks like, but he’s sure that he’ll know who he’s looking for when he sees her.

For the second day in a row, there’s no design on Duncan’s coffee cup. He’s disappointed, sure that she must have had to extend her unexpected absence until he tastes his Americano and realizes that it’s his barista’s Americano. His heart starts to pound, and he tries to look as if he’s not going to jump out of his skin. 

“Hi,” Duncan greets stiffly, the cashier hiding his smirk behind a cough. “Is...the barista that normally works, is she here?”

The cashier, who had his money in the work pool on Duncan cracking first, nods. “Yeah, I’ll go get her.”

Any coherent thought that Duncan may have had goes flying out the window when the door is pushed open and he finally comes face to face with his barista. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Her big eyes light up when she sees Duncan, lips curling into a smile, as she runs a hand through her hair nervously. Her smile is already Duncan’s favorite part of her. It’s the kind of smile that allows her radiant personality to shine through, warming anybody who’s lucky enough to be in its path. 

“Hi,” Duncan says, the only word he can force out that isn’t stuttered mumbling.

“Hi,” she repeats. “Did you finally get sick of my little scribbles?”

“Yes--no, I meant no!” he assures. “I’ve actually really enjoyed your drawings, and they’ve become my favorite part of my day. You also happen to make the best coffee I’ve ever had, which is definitely a plus. But then you weren’t here yesterday, and it sort of threw me for a loop.” Her smile falters slightly, just long enough for Duncan to see the sadness that lingers in her eyes.

“I had...uh, a family emergency yesterday.” Her grandpa had fallen down a set of stairs at his home and broke two ribs that nearly punctured his lungs. At the hospital, he had also taken the opportunity to allow his doctor to explain the secret he had been desperately trying to hide from his family: Alzheimer’s Disease.

The disease had been caught early, during a routine checkup when his regular doctor had asked him how the newest great grandchild (barely a month old) was doing and he couldn’t remember the baby’s name. A few tests later, and the devastating diagnosis had been handed down. (Y/N)’s grandfather, ever the strong patriarch, hadn’t wanted to share this with his family until it started to become worse. That plan, however, flew out the window when he lost his footing at the top of his staircase.

“I can’t believe you actually liked those stupid drawings,” she continues. “I just started it to get back at you for being a jerk to Zack, and then I saw how happy you got when there was another drawing the next day. It just kind of snowballed from there.”

“I don’t think they’re stupid!” Duncan interjects. He’s prepared to launch a crusade, letting her know just how talented she is and how he doesn’t know what he’d do if she were to stop, ending it with the carefully-placed question of when her next day off is so that he can get to know her properly, when a voice from the back yells for her. Duncan’s stunned at suddenly learning her name; it fits her, and it’s a lot better than calling her ‘his barista.’ She looks over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose when she sees the delivery truck with the weekly stock fulfillment. 

“Looks like that’s my cue.”

Before she goes to turn around, Duncan finally remembers how to speak once again. “(Y/N)?” She stops, looking at him. “That’s your name, right?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Duncan smiles genuinely, not one of the forced smiles he slaps on whenever he’s meeting with a client or donor. “I’m Duncan. It was wonderful to finally meet you today, (Y/N).” He can’t stop saying her name, the syllables rolling off his tongue smoothly and leaving behind a taste better than the finest coffee in the world.

“It was nice to meet you too, Duncan.” His heart nearly flips when she says his name, giving him a small wave before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Duncan remains frozen in his tracks, still staring at the spot she once occupied, as if blinking will wash away her existence like a shimmering mirage. His mind does loops, replaying the brief conversation in his head over and over again until her voice is all he can hear. Duncan can’t get her eyes out of his head, that brief flicker of sadness a problem that he needs to solve. He can’t watch this person, who’s given him so much happiness, feel anything less than happy. Strolling up to the counter, Duncan smirks at the wide-eyed cashier.

“Tell me,” he says smoothly, “what does (Y/N) like?”

//

(Y/N)’s stuck making drinks the next morning, the shop being too short-staffed for her to work on any of the other tasks she needs to complete. It’s a pretty steady shift so far, the cooler weather drawing more people to come in and get some warmth before braving the rest of their commute to work. She just wants to get through this shift, her mind on the problems she has to deal with while her muscle memory goes through the motions of creating the drinks she could now make in her sleep. She doesn’t even hear when Jeremy calls her name the first time, only hearing him when he gently bumps her shoulder. (Y/N) looks up at him with wide eyes, silently wondering if she’s messed something up.

“Shit, Jer, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to zone out,” she stammers out an apology.

“I wasn’t trying to get your attention because you’re in trouble or anything. Honestly, you can still make drinks better than I can even when your mind is a million miles away.”

“Okay, so what’s up?” Jeremy has a tendency of forgetting what he was talking about if he gets going on a different subject, and this seems to be the case. 

“Oh! Your Prince Charming is back, and he’s asking for you again.” She looks at the drink she’s just finished making, seeing that it is indeed a large Americano with three shots. There’s no design on the cup; not because she’s decided to stop, but because she just hasn’t had the time or the energy.

“Should--should I take this out to him?” Jeremy looks at her with wide eyes, nodding slowly like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. 

“Yes! Go, or else I’ll swoop in and steal your man,” he threatens jokingly. She picks up the order, smiling when Jeremy shoots her a thumbs up before ushering her out the door. 

Duncan’s cheeks are already pink as he stares down at his phone, trying not to look like he’s waiting for her. He’s holding a small bouquet of brightly colored flowers, most likely having forgotten his mother’s birthday or some other important event.

“Hey, Duncan,” she greets, setting his coffee down in front of him. “Sorry, there's no design today.”

“That’s okay.” Duncan holds the flowers out towards (Y/N), biting his lip and attempting not to show that he’s nervous. “These are for you.”

“For me?” (Y/N) takes the flowers from him, their hands briefly brushing against each other before she quickly pulls her hand back. She smells them, smiling brightly up at Duncan. “These are my favorites! Nobody’s ever bought me flowers before.”

“Why not? You deserve all of the flowers, and so much more.”

“Thank you, Duncan. This was really sweet of you.”

“You just...looked so sad yesterday. I wanted to brighten your day like you brighten mine.” (Y/N)’s cheeks heat up, and she looks down at the flowers instead of looking into his eyes for fear of getting more flustered. 

“Duncan,” she nearly whines, not good at taking compliments.

“It’s true, and you should be told that everyday.” Duncan reaches across the counter and puts his hand on top of hers, making her stare at him with surprised eyes. “Listen, (Y/N), I’d really like to get to know you when you’re not wearing that cute apron of yours.”

“You do? My drawings impressed you that much?”

“Your drawings increased my interest in you, and meeting you has made it impossible for me to not ask to see you outside of your job.” He smiles at her, leaning in closer from over the counter. “So? What do you say?”

Instead of answering, (Y/N) holds a finger up and fishes a marker out of her apron. Uncapping it with her teeth like she did on the day that she first decided to draw on Duncan’s cup, she scribbles one last masterpiece for him before handing it over. He quickly scans what she’s written, smirking and letting go of her hand with a nod. ‘I’m off at 12; lunch?’ Her phone number directly follows the question, a smiley face drawn next to it.

“I’ll be here to pick you up at 12, then.”

“I’ll be the one in the apron.”

//

Tag List (I’m on a time crunch so I’m just tagging a few homies): @lvngdvns @wroteclassicaly @ccodyfern @cocosfern @langdvnshepherd @divinelangdon @1-800-bitchcraft @venusxxlangdon @mega-combusken @tcc-gizmachine

[thesmolines]

Not again...

There is no pain more excruciating than being betrayed, used and lied to. I let someone in with the hopes of finding something my heart has been seeking for quite some time now, calm & comfort... but instead, I found chaos and confusion. It all ended in just a whim but the aftermath of what had transpired will take years before it vanishes. This whole dilemma isn't solely just about the boy. A major factor, yes but what he made me felt is what I couldn't wrap my head around. 

I've understood and accepted that I am very hard to love. Anxiety eats me up every single day. I have these doubts banging my chests. But what I could not grasp is why do people have to lead me on and pretend that they care. Before I even demolished my walls for this guy, I have declared my plans of not staying here in Manila for long. I asked him countless times if he is still willing to talk to me even with the fact that I'll soon leave. I told him that I am contrary to the type of girls he is usually around, that I'm girly, maarte and that I take, God knows how long to get ready. I made him aware that I overthink and exaggerate every little thing in my mind. I laid down to him bit by bit that I'm already terrified to let people in and how that may cause some trust issues during the course of time. In short, I gave him warnings so he can give all of these a thought. If he isn't down for it, I would understand.

 And yet he chose to stay. He chose to make me feel like what we had was something worth risking for. He made me get used to him being around. He would constantly tell me that he is willing to introduce me to his friends, or if ever we decided to take things to the next level, I'll be his first-ever long-distance girlfriend. Phrases like those made me clung to the idea of me, finally finding a guy who is willing to put up with me.

 He was the type of guy you'll not a hard time falling for. Unlike most guys, flirting isn't the only thing he talks about. (If so, I would directly throw him in the chute. I despise guys like that ) He has a way with words. The kind that will make you feel giddy. His sense of humor matches mine and oh, did I mention that he sings? He will swoon you with his voice. I thought he was all of that and more, that is why I decided to finally let my guards down. 

Man, I was wrong. After we both decided to burn the bridges between us, I looked back at our old conversations and felt a sudden pang of betrayal. I asked myself "How did he manage to say all of these words despite knowing full well that he cannot justify it with actions". My stomach churns whenever I reminisce how he sounded so excited that we're finally going to see each other. How he made me feel like the 21st of October is a day I should be looking forward to. My mind is currently bombarded with questions. Especially days after that incident--when he's already nowhere to be found and all that is left for me to do is wonder what the fuck just happened. 

During that night, as he slowly makes me understand his side, I cannot feel a single thing. All that I know is that I'm shocked and I cannot process all of this bullshit tonight because what I had in mind for this night is different from what is happening. But now, days after, I'm already sober from the overwhelming feeling and I have now the capacity to assess things, I cannot help but curse whenever I hear the word "I'm not ready". The frustration reverberates to my entire system. When did he knew he wasn't ready and why the fuck he didn't told me earlier? All these mayhem could have been avoided if he was honest right away and if what he said was true, he would have at least have the decency to give me a heads up that he can't feel a spark between us because that would have prepared me but he didn't. He did not. He continued to talk to me like he's every adamant to take things to the next level... I asked him a couple of times regarding his intentions and plans but all he did was divert the conversation.

All of these are mental torture, to say the very least. To pull the "I am not ready" card is one of the most mediocre excuse I have ever heard. It is common knowledge that is simile to "I'm not interested to at least try". He could have at least man up and told me that directly. I would have accepted all of these with an open heart.

 If only I was not clouded with all these ideas that he is a nice guy or that he won't do such horrible things, I would have instantaneously left. My bad, I stayed and ignored the red flags.

What I feel for this guy is not yet that deep because a month is too short to establish a connection with someone, but I can feel that it's already there. Hurt is not even the right term, Disappointed rather, because here we go again, investing feelings for someone, allowing ourselves to be susceptible to pain and yet, in the end, all our efforts go straight to the sink. 

This whole thing ruined completely my trust with men in the years to come. I don't even know If I can still let people in without the fear that they might do the same but on the bright side, my love for growth and being independent is now stronger than before. 

P.S, I'm disappointed.

[swanqiu]

rift.

----a parallel dimension travel, slow burn, gnawing-at-my-mind-plot-bunny appreciation gift for @fallenmulciber

the first time she finds herself in his universe, she tells him that she’ll be out of his hair as soon as she figures out how to leave, promise.

...so the second time, now, that she’s ended up back in his world, he realizes that maybe her promises aren’t worth very much.

(even so, he lets himself believe her this next time.)

It’s a Friday night when it first happens.

To Mulciber, Friday nights are for smoke-filled bars and throat burns by firewhiskey and just the occasional hope-- when he’s had enough to drink-- that somebody gets shitfaced enough to start a fight with him. He thrives on the taste of blood in his mouth, on the cracking of bone beneath his fist.

Friday nights are for brooding and boozing.

Friday nights are most certainly not for confused, wide-eyed babes and twenty fucking questions. (Not enough weekends exist in the year, as it stands, for him to get his fill of anarchy, of evenings where he can just let himself be.)

So when the girl with the long, dark hair and the lips-that-frown-too-much comes out of nowhere and demands answers about where she is (something about not being where she’s supposed to be), single-handedly throwing all of his Friday night plans into oblivion? A sure warning sign to stay the fuck away, if he’s ever seen one.

He doesn’t run into her again after that night, and that’s fine, he thinks, because the less mind-dizzying and intrusive women he has around to fuck up his lifelong pursuits of misery, the better. Mulciber knows he should stay away.

—

The trouble is, she’s the one who keeps coming back.

—

The first time she finds herself in his universe, she tells him that she’ll be out of his hair as soon as she figures out how to leave, promise.

He believes her. With a smart girl like her-- probably always good to her word, undoubtedly gifted in the way that all swots are-- he doesn’t doubt that she’ll be gone before he can even save to memory the surprising number of faint freckles dotting the bridge of her nose.

—

...so the second time, now, that she’s ended up back in his world, he realizes that maybe her promises aren’t worth very much.

—

Her eyes, when they focus, are dark and wide and clouded with what Mulciber immediately recognizes to be fear. His grin stretches, gleams, almost tauntingly.

“Good morning. Never took you for the breaking-into-strangers’-houses sort of girl.”

She scrambles to situate herself into a sitting position, and her gaze darts around the room, taking in her not at all familiar surroundings as Mulciber straightens to his full height. “Where-- but I was back already-- how am I--”

Spluttering is, unquestionably, not a look that suits her.

Mulciber shrugs and grabs his leather jacket from the coat rack. “I don’t know why you’re here, doll,” he remarks, standing in the doorway to look at her, “or how you even got in.” He eyes his still-bolted padlock and frowns. “But you really meant what you said last time, huh? About being... not where you’re supposed to be.”

He watches her close her eyes; watches her inhale, exhale, repeat, before she leans over and holds her head in her hands.

“I’m... I’ll be out of here soon,” she mutters determinedly to the floor, her words still carrying the last fleeting bits of sleep. “I just... I just have to figure out what happened, and I’ll be gone for good.”

—

Even so, he lets himself believe her this next time.

—

She-- Cho, he commits to memory; her name is Cho-- finds a way back to where she’s supposed to be, soon and sure enough. Finding one’s way out of a parallel universe is, apparently, quite easy to do. Something about a precisely timed complex spell, a modified Portkey, and a sure determination to not be here.

(No offense, she’d added quickly with a tight and barely-meant smile, at the far end of his couch, with her knees drawn up to her chest.

None taken, he’d replied with a shrug, from the other end, with his feet crossed at the ankles and propped up on his coffee table.)

Anyway, once more left to his own, he goes out for a drink that night; some shitfaced guy does end up picking a fight with him, and Mulciber wins easily-- of course he does; he always wins-- but he only fights out of defense this time, and not because he particularly enjoys it. Over the last few weeks, he’s started finding routine and fistfights and predictability boring. He's started craving something different. Starts craving a challenge, kind of like puzzles or the Daily Prophet’s weekly riddle or some shit. Or like an alternate universe’s sad-eyed woman who really shouldn’t even be possible, whom he still can’t be fully convinced even exists, but she does, and Mulciber’s already worked his brain ten times over trying to understand where she even fits into all of this.

He finds himself requesting a butterbeer at the end of his tab, after he’s cleaned up, and he grimaces, first, at how predictably cloying it is. He didn’t think she’d be the type of girl to like shit this sweet.

But he can’t deny, though, the soothing warmth that lingers in the back of his throat and to his core, even hours after, when he’s wide awake. When his bandaged knuckles throb from their bruises, and the wall by his bed radiates a comforting coolness, and he realizes, as he turns onto his back and stares, that his thoughts haven’t been in the habit of making space for anyone other than himself in a long time.

His white ceiling is the perfect canvas for projecting thoughts of a face that knows how to turn pink all too quickly.

—

Twelve days later, Mulciber wakes up to a fervent pounding on his front door, and that something warm takes residence in his chest, in his stomach, in the tips of his fingers, when he peers through the peephole and sees that look of anxiously knitted brows and pursed lips that he’s come to recognize well.

—

"I think I know,” Cho prefaces, one Sunday down the road-- her second visit in a month and her sixth one overall.

She has this theory that she rifts-- rifts; that’s what she calls it, like it’s fucking diagnosed-- because she’s upset. “I show up here when I’m more, well, sad back in my world, is the thing. Easiest way to put it.”

He stares at her. Frowns. “So, what, I’m your therapist or something?”

Cho huffs, obviously distressed. “No, no; I mean, I don’t know why here of all places, or you of all people, or why this even happens.” She frowns back. “I was just pointing out the common thread between all of my unexpected visits so far.”

So she has stuff to figure out in her life. She’s not special; so does he.

“And what?” Mulciber asks, running a hand through his hair. “What’s stopping you from casting a spell, making a potion, ending up back home?”

Like the first few times. Like it’s always that simple.

The crease between her brows returns. “Sometimes I manage to get back on my own. Sometimes it just happens, just as suddenly as me getting here. But no matter how I end up going back,” she stresses, “it’s not permanent. I always end up back here, is the other thing. I thought it would stop after a while, but it’s... it’s just kept happening, and it doesn’t make for functioning in my real life any easier with everything going on--”

Cho has a tendency to ramble. It’s something he’s noticed with being her occasional host.

Mulciber cuts her off. “Sorry this isn’t your real life,” he reiterates, not quite sure where this sting in his chest comes from, at those delicate words, “but if you’re here for life advice? For me to somehow make whatever problems you have over there not so difficult?” He scoffs. Uncrosses his ankles. “I’m not that guy.”

She blinks, not having expected his sudden retort, and a blooming pink-- a trademark of hers-- rises to her cheeks. “I never asked you to be,” she finally says, slowly. “I never wanted any of this. I never chose to end up in your world, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Right. His world.

It’s a little unfair, he thinks, that she makes it sound as if he wants this any more than she does. He hasn’t asked for this either; he doesn’t want to play Healer to a girl who comes along every blue moon in search of some pick-me-up for when her life goes to shit.

He didn’t choose her to come along and fuck up what had been an otherwise passable everyday life, a life where he hadn’t had to concern himself with thinking about stupid stuff-- like if she might hate him more if she knew about his past, or if he should invest in a spare set of house keys for when parallel dimension women stay over.

Both of them opt for silence that their respective pride doesn’t dare break first, but he sees the tense setting of her jaw and the look in her eye; it’s not hurt. Or at least, he doesn’t think it’s hurt. No way-- Cho Chang doesn’t reveal her cards so easily, and especially not where he’s concerned.

This isn’t real to her, after all.

(And he still doesn’t know why that works him up more than it should.)

She gives up trying to explain her theory-- rifting, where the fuck does she come up with this shit-- and Mulciber stares at her for a bit, wondering if she might give a retort or something, to let him know what she’s thinking. Remind him again that she certainly doesn’t want this, doesn’t need him. But she doesn’t.

Bloody fine, then.

He gets up and pulls on his leather jacket, stepping out for a bit to be by himself. He’s good at doing that. He’s the fucking king of Lonely Men.

—

By the time he returns and calls out from the entryway, his flat remains silent.

Mulciber tries to smother the royal tendrils of what feels suspiciously like disappointment creeping into his cold, hard heart.

—

A month passes, and he figures she's finally done it.

She must have finally figured out how to keep her ass where it belongs.

Maybe he'd made her up this whole time, imagined her into existence on a particularly good (bad?) trip.

He comes home buzzed one night and thinks about how he shouldn't smoke right now, but he’s been good at keeping off and thinks he deserves it this one time, but he's been smoking the same strain and wants to change things up, so maybe he should try to pull a few strings with Avery first--

His thoughts quiet and he sobers up the moment he spots her sitting outside of his apartment complex.

—

“Look, it’s fine for you to take the bed from now on; I don't mind the sofa,” he calls out to her. “Unless,” he adds aloud with a smirk, “you want to share a space with me. I’m fine with close quarters.”

When she doesn’t reply, Mulciber frowns and pads down the hall, mentally kicking himself. “I’m just joking. But look, if you want to wash up, washroom's available,” he offers instead, reaching the living room.

He stands awkwardly in the doorway, one hand jammed into the pocket of his jeans and the other hand thumbing over his shoulder to the other end of the hallway.

Cho looks up at him, and the redness around her glistening eyes are enough of a hint. Immediately, he clams up.

Ezra Mulciber is not the comforting type.

“Oh,” she murmurs, voice thick, quickly moving to wipe away her tears with her sleeves. He almost doesn’t recognize the pursed-lip, steel-eyed woman from earlier. “Thanks,” she adds, rising to her feet, and as she walks by him she ducks her head, dark hair shadowing her face.

He’s not the comforting type, but he’s not completely insensitive.

“Whoa, uh, you good?” Mulciber inquires gruffly, reaching out to take hold of her shoulder. She bristles at his touch and turns toward him, visibly not good, but also caught off guard by his gesture. He retracts his hand and rubs the back of his neck. “If you... if you need to get it out of your system, whatever it is,” Mulciber continues lamely, hoping he at least looks sincere because his words are probably failing his expression of sympathy-- which he’s clearly not used to giving, ever, “uh... or if there’s anything I can do, just... just let me know, yeah?”

Cho blinks. The tears that had pooled at the bottom of her eyes glint as they fall, one after the other, to the floor.

His head hurts.

“And um... it’s okay if you wanna crash here whenever you end up here and need to wait to get back,” he continues rambling, suddenly hyper aware of how long she’s been staring at him. “Like, it’s no problem at all, but listen-- I don’t have any of that...” Mulciber motions broadly with his hand, toward her abdomen and pelvis area “... any of that time of month stuff if you'd ever need it, so...”

He trails off, not really sure what else to say (because, like, he really doesn’t have any of that stuff and wouldn’t know where to get it, anyway).

She blinks again, and he half expects her to just quietly nod or sigh or scoff, like she always does. Or just walk right past him, which also seems pretty on brand.

But here’s the thing-- she laughs. It’s not a full laugh, not like one that she would probably have if she were back in her other world and not stuck here, but it’s soft and unexpected and somewhat strangled, caught by the lump in her throat, and it makes Mulciber feel... good.

“Thank you,” Cho breathes as she winds down from her laugh, eyes still wet, and she offers a halfway smile. He doesn’t know what she’s thanking him for, but nevertheless, it makes him feel really good. He’ll take it.

—

She slips back into the living room after her shower, and when she settles into her seat on the couch, opposite end of Mulciber, he doesn't show his surprise. Just moves his legs some so that she has space to bring up her legs and stretch out and face him. Which, also surprisingly, she does.

Cho doesn't bring up any of what they exchanged last time (he hadn't expected her to), but she does comment on a new scar he has, and he grins, telling her all about one of the many idiots that tried to fight him. She tells him about one of her scars, from when she first started riding a broom, and he's taken by the way her eyes light up. (If he were his younger self, he might have been more drawn to her porcelain sadness. Might have wondered what it would take for her to break, and if he might be the one to do it. But given who he is now, and that small light he sees catching in her eyes? That’s what fucking spurs him to intoxication.)

She tells him about stuff from her past, and how all of that still weighs heavily on her, and how she has her confusions about where she’s going or what she feels. He tells her simply that he admittedly doesn’t know a lot about her, but what he does know is that she’s fierce and brilliant and has a lot to be proud about, and that any world would be better off having her. 

She deflects by commenting on the smell of butterbeer on his breath, and he splutters, trying to fucking justify himself and how no, he hasn't gone soft, he just likes to change things up every once in a while, thanks, and she just smirks. It's infuriating. He counters that she probably still can't hold her firewhiskey.

He hesitates, but he tells her up front that she’s better off hanging around people who aren’t him; she just scoffs. Listens patiently and quietly when he tells her just a few of the many, many things that still haunt him. Cho unflinchingly considers all of this, takes it all in, and she still doesn’t leave.

By 4am, she's talking about new charms and potions she's working on, and he tells her she's a downright nerd, a fucking swot-- in the best way-- and she grins, blushing like crazy. His head still hurts.

He's never liked small spaces and being close to other people, but--

With her, he conveniently forgets his own rules.

It turns out they both fall asleep on his sofa, after hours of back-and-forth talking and rare glimpses into the other's past and friendly insults, and around 6am, Mulciber thinks he feels the weight next to him on the couch suddenly lessen, thinks the warmth of her head by his feet suddenly disappears, and when he stirs awake a few hours later, she’s gone.

And this time, when he finds his flat empty, Mulciber feels something different that springs up in the root of his chest; he doesn’t dare call it hope, because only chumps hope. Hope only leads to expectations that let him down, always.

He doesn’t hope that she comes back, but he, restless by nature and often prone to impulse, actually waits-- patiently on some days and maybe a little impatiently on others-- for her to come back (as if she has a say on whenever that happens, he scoffs to himself). But he doesn't just wait; he expects that she’ll be back, even, because broken people know broken people best.

—

A year passes.

Mulciber almost forgets what she looks like, and what she sounds like, and how she has a tendency to look troubled and questioning, even in sleep. But butterbeer still makes him think of bowed lips and an off-limits warmth, and doe eyes still cross his mind on the rare occasion.

At the end of the first few months of her longest absence yet, he thinks it’s great that she's stopped being so hung up in her feelings, really (that must be why she doesn’t rift anymore). And when several more months pass and he still isn’t blessed with her signature look of wary hesitation (always, with him), Mulciber thinks it’s fan-fucking-tastic that she’s got her shit sorted out.

He keeps busy with actually filling out his bookshelf and reading urban novels. Learns to cook (kind of) a very basic starter meal. Starts doing some small time vigilante-type stuff, like beating up punks who harass witches outside of the bar or casting semi-permanent graffiti figures on his evil landlord’s front door. He even starts keeping plants on his windowsill, a few succulents and prickly cacti, because he’s read they don’t require too much effort to maintain. An older witch he often meets on the street tells him that he reminds her of her nice nephew.

By the thirteenth month mark, he almost forgets about her.

Almost.

Because it’s an April evening when the weather throws the nastiest spring downpour in recent history, and he’s not very well dressed for it, is he, because the days leading up until had been solidly sunny and cloudless, so of course he hadn’t thought that he’d need to bring either a jacket or an umbrella today, but--

He’s shivering and soaked and miserable, as he catches himself seeking refuge under a flimsy shopfront canopy, and the owner behind the display window scowls at him and motions to the NO LOITERING sign in big, bold letters.

“I’m freezing my ass off here!” he shouts through the glass, droplets flinging from his beard as he rounds, and he’s about to motion something rude until a shadow covers him and his clothes suddenly start drying.

Mulciber peers up. Above him, a bright yellow umbrella replaces the dark red of the store’s canopy. To his right, a dark-haired woman with an arched brow and a tightly drawn raincoat gives him this look, pitying and somewhat entertained and just a bit smug, and then--

“Never took you for the purposefully-looking-to-contract-pneumonia sort of bloke.”

He tells himself that it’s the Hot-Air Charm she’s casting on his clothes that warms his insides, too.

—

She’s... different, this time around. The blunt ends of her hair just barely graze sharp collar bones. The lines around her mouth are less marked by uncertainty, less pronounced by perpetual frowns. They’re more faint. Her eyes hold that light he’d noticed before.

Once the rain becomes little more than a manageable drizzle, they set off down the street, quietly hunched beneath the shelter of her umbrella. That is, until Mulciber’s had enough of her damn goblin height and wordlessly plucks the handle from her grip, raising her umbrella higher above the both of them so that he doesn’t have to slouch to keep dry.

(He happens to forget that he has magic, of all things, that would allow him to fashion a cover of his own.)

Cho turns to him in surprise, and he focuses in front of him, on the droplets dripping steadily from the point of the umbrella’s frame. Her now-empty hands drop to her sides, and she’s first to speak since the shopfront.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Footsteps on wet cement are louder than he'd realized.

He bows his head, a curt nod, free hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans. It’s not like he’s been keeping track. But he knows he’s had quite a few introspective evenings with a glass of firewhiskey since he’d last seen her, had quite a few changes to his life since then. He’s picked up a habit of falling asleep in his living room, in her absence.

No correlation, though, he tells himself. Mulciber screws up his face and pretends to think about her icebreaker. “Not long enough, if you ask me--” he finally says, breaking into a grin when he hears her scoff at his audacity “--but, if you’d missed me, you could have just said so.”

She doesn’t say anything-- just huffs, bites the inside of her cheek, and lightly punches his arm.

He dodges-- or tries to, anyway-- and his laugh, in return, is deep and endearing and new.

—

This time, her stay surpasses the usual day.

In fact, she’s here for a whole week before he finally brings it up.

Cho sets down the book she’d found on his desk and shrugs, tucking long bangs behind her ear. “I... found my own way back this time,” she admits, almost casually, but he sees the tips of her ears tinge red.

“So, what, did you run out of charming otherworldly men to bother?”

He’s got his arms crossed at one end of the couch and she’s at the other end with her knees drawn up, like good old times. But this time, she’s curled up less from hesitation or fear and more from a shyness he hasn't recognized on her before.

Cho rolls her eyes and fights a smile, resting her head on the curve of the sofa backs. “I wasn’t aware I’d met any charming men on any of my universe travels.”

Mulciber grins into his drink, flirting with the rim of his glass. “Might be time you get your vision checked, doll. There’s one right in front of you.”

Another scoff. A shake of her head. And then an exhale he interprets as contentment.

He finally clears his throat again, after a moment. Sets down his glass. “But shouldn’t you be getting back to your... you know... your real life?”

Cho blinks. Lifts her head. Gives him that fucking smile, the one that squeezes his chest a little too tightly. “This... this is real.”

She says it without question, with a confident sureness that can’t be restrained by the softness of her answer. She looks at him and it sort of stuns him, because she looks determined. Looks decided. She’s blushing.

"I want this, Ezra. To stay, that is.”

Oh.

His turn to blink.

Oh.

Fucking ohhh.

He can’t remember the last time he was anyone’s choice or even a considerable option. He can’t even remember the last time anyone looked at him like he’s not scum. Like he isn’t such a bad guy with a shitty past he hasn’t completely gotten over.

Cho Chang knows this, and still, she chooses this. Here. Him.

“You know... after my last visit, that space you gave me to just... process... I learned to control how to come and go.”

“Rifting, you mean?”

She beams at his use of her word.

Cho Chang looks at him like he’s complex and interesting and valuable. She looks at him like he’s worth a damn, like he’s Quidditch or the lake from her childhood or how it feels to fly on the exhilarating pull of a broomstick. Like he’s the successful golden glow from a new spell she’s made or the warmth of butterbeer on a cold day or the familiar comfort of a couch that feels the way home should feel.

A year ago, she might have been doubtful of him, and suspecting, and sad-eyed, and still looking for the next available way out. But here she is, rendering him wordless, because she happily chooses to stay here. He didn’t even need an Imperio.

She looks at him and she tilts her head, still smiling, waiting--

When Mulciber grins in return and pulls her in, breathing in her sweet citrus smell, taking in her laughter and shaky exhales and undeniable softness in his arms, he can’t help but think that she fits there, in the middle of his living room. 

In his world.

[greenteafiend]

That drabble I promised:

Based on this post I wrote about how sad Keith looked in season 4 episode 1 when the team rips into him and he looks like he’s going to cry. (The prompt is basically what if he did cry lol)

For the sake of the drabble, assume Keith just arrived back after the mission where Regris dies. 

I dedicate this to @helloseaweedbrainwisegirl and @froldgapp this is your faults lol

Keith’s palms were sweaty, and his heart was beating so hard it felt like it might try to escape out of his chest; it hadn’t really stopped since his last mission. Being back in the castle felt unreal; there was still a note of hysteria pounding through his veins.

On top of that he was nervous. So nervous he felt sick to his stomach, because this was something he’d been subconsciously working up to for a while now. He’d hoped it’d be more gradual, that he’d be able to ease away so carefully they wouldn’t even notice his absence, but he’d ruined it. He didn’t even know why he was surprised; he ended up ruining most good things in his life.

Maybe he thought because he’d been trying so hard, because he’d been invested this time, that things would turn out okay… He should have known better.

Normally Keith would sequester himself in his room, wait until his hands stopped shaking and he stopped feeling overwhelmed to face the others. He’d wait until he was certain he could take Shiro’s disappointed looks and the others’ accusing stares.

But he’d fucked up big time today.

Regris was-

Regris had-

He couldn’t even complete the thought. If he let himself think about it he’d fall apart, so he thought about the other fuck up instead. The one he was about to get chewed out for.

While he was floating through space, unsure whether he was going to live or not, his team had needed him, and he wasn’t there. He’d let them down, and the guilt was eating him alive, leaving behind only that ever present note of hysteria. Or was that because he’d nearly died?

In any case, now he had to face the music.

He took a deep breath, curling his shaking hands into fists and steeling himself before approaching the door to the bridge. It swished open automatically to admit him.   

“Guys… I-” he choked off abruptly. Everyone was present and accounted for, standing together. They looked like they belonged together, standing there in their shiny white Paladin armour.

And they were all staring at him with varying degrees of anger, hostility, and - worst of all - disappointment.  

It felt like his dad waving good bye, saying ‘see you soon, son,’ but never coming back. It felt like every time he wasn’t a ‘good fit’ with a foster family. It felt like getting kicked out of the Garrison.

It hurt.  

He was trying so hard, but it felt like no matter what he did it seemed like he was making the wrong decision.   

“I heard what happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help,” he offered meekly.

“You keep saying you’re sorry but your actions say otherwise. Do you realize that your absence put the team in jeopardy?” snapped Allura. Keith clenched his fists so hard that his blunt nails dug into his palm.

“And not just the team, but the refugees as well!” chimed in Lance.

“Matter of fact, the whole quadrant was in danger,” added Pidge harshly.

“I-”

Words stuck in his throat. He didn’t have any. He was utterly defenceless.

His breathing hitched on a familiar feeling burning its way through his body, settling in behind his eyes.

He blinked furiously and pressed his lips together, desperate to hold it back.

“Keith,” Shiro this time, “You need to start taking your role as Black Paladin more seriously. If I hadn’t been able to reconnect with Black when I did-”

Keith had to leave.

He didn’t even say anything, just turned on his heel and started making for the door. He needed to be alone immediately because he was about to lose it. Panic a fear were fighting to claw their way out of his body; the feeling was too strong to contain.

There were already tears rolling down his cheek now that he was turned away, a choked back sob ready in his throat.

But someone caught him by the wrist and pulled him back.

“Where are you going? We aren’t fini-” Shiro cut off abruptly when he stepped around Keith’s stiff body to look at his face.    

Keith sniffed miserably, staring at the ground, unable to meet Shiro’s eye, wiping at his face desperately with the arm Shiro wasn’t holding.

“Let me go,” he said, trying to tug himself out of Shiro’s grip roughly, but Shiro held fast.

“Keith, what’s the matter?” murmured Shiro urgently.

Keith yanked his arm again ruthlessly, and this time Shiro yielded and let him go, sending Keith stumbling backwards a few steps.

He looked up at everyone, and fuck that was a bad idea, because now they were staring at him in horror, like he was a pathetic wounded animal that needed to be put out of its misery.  

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, wiping jerkily at his eyes, willing everyone to just ignore that he was crying, “It’s better this way,” he said, voice cracking.

He wanted so badly to do what was right, to do his part to end this war and stop Zarkon, but it had become clear to him since they got Shiro back that being the Black Paladin wasn’t supposed to be part of that. The rest of the team deserved a better leader. The universe deserved a better leader, one that wasn’t afraid all the time, one that actually knew what to do, one that wasn’t torn up about where they belonged. One that didn’t cry like a child when he got stressed.

They needed Shiro, and they needed Keith out of the way.

“Shiro reconnected with the Black Lion so now he can be the l-leader I wasn’t able to b-be,” he stammered, voice hitching embarrassingly.  

“Keith, what are you talking about?” asked Lance, calm and gentle.  

“Is this why you’ve been pulling away from us?” asked Allura softly.

“P-part of it,” he choked out, and then his face crumpled completely. He turned around and slapped one of his own hands over his mouth to stifle the way his breaths stuttered wetly. He couldn’t hide the way his shoulders were trembling though.

“’Scuse me,” he said, barely above a whisper, intending to escape again, but before he could take even one step towards the door, arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him against a firm chest.

Shiro again. Keith froze.

Lance appeared in front of him, tutting sympathetically. He took Keith’s wrist to pull his hand away from his face, reaching up to thumb away some of Keith’s tears, before wrapping his arms around Keith’s shoulders and leaning in to embrace him.

Hunk came in next to hug all three of them - Keith, Lance, and Shiro - from one side, resting his chin on top of Keith’s head, and then Pidge wriggled her way in-between Lance and Keith from the opposite side, hugging Keith around the waist tightly.

A small hand that must have belonged to Allura took one of his, and Coran pressed his palm onto one of Keith’s shoulders.

“It’s okay, Keith, we’ve got you,” murmured Shiro.

With those kind words Keith gave in and let himself break, pressing his face into Lance’s shoulder as he sobbed wetly, letting his team hold him up.  

“Aw, Keith, don’t cry! It'll make me cry!” said Hunk, voice already wobbly.

“We didn’t mean to make you sad,” said Pidge against his chest, equally wobbly.

“You’ve been spreading yourself too thin Number 4,” remarked Coran sadly.

(Sorry for any typos I did my best lol)

[tearssmileslaughtermylife]

Losing Everything In The Blink of an Eye

I might not deserve happiness, or love or anything good in this life. I've fucked up probably every good thing I had going for me. I've disappointed everyone in my life. I've made horrible decisions, that could've cost me my life. Hell Im still making bad decisions, but I'm honestly trying. I've given a good decade of my life to people I thought would always be there for me. I've done things that caused these people to be out of my life and I think that pain is worse then any broken bone, heartbreak, or sudden death in the family, I'll ever have/go through. When you have people in your life that become your family, that you become so close to, nothing matters but them, and it all disappears with a literal blink of an eye, it does something to a person. Over the past month, I've done nothing but cry cry cry cry cry. Apart of me broke a month ago. A part of me was torn, it was demolished, it was destroyed. A part of my heart was taken when those special people left me. They say time heals everything, right? I'm sure it heals most things or just makes them easier but I don't think any amount of time will do that for me. Most days, these people are at the back of my mind and I get through the day feeling fine, but then the bad days hit. Man do they Fucking hit hard. They really fucking beat me up. Some days, I wake up and I know it's going to be a bad day because I wake up "feeling". My emotions are usually numb and nothing bothers me and I just deal with daily bullshit, but then these emotional days come and I just want to jump off a bridge. I don't know if I should feel pain, sorrow, loss, anger...I don't know what I should feel at all. All I know is what I do feel is pure Fucking pain. Pain like I never felt before. Sometimes I believe there's something ripping me apart inside. I spent 10 years loving these people and they're gone.... a lot of why they are gone is my fault, but then again it's not all my fault. These people were my world, my whole heart. My family. My best friend, my sister, my niece, my baby, my brother, my mother, my father, my Pap, my kitties, my Luna. My Fucking everything. They were my reason for waking up. They were my reason I was a strong girl. They were my reason for smiling. They gave me reasons to live. They gave me the strength to keep pushing on, even when I was at my darkest and most low points, they pulled me back up and shook me out of it and helped me. They were there through every up and down of my entire miserable, shitty life. They loved me. They took me in to there family and made me apart of it. They gave me what I never had. Real, pure --LOVE. I think they loved me, just as much as I loved them. Now all I feel is hurt. I will never hate them. I can't hate them, it's not possible too. I don't even think I'll even ever stop loving them. I just don't know if I have it in me to fight. I know I can't fight for them any longer. If they want me in there lives they will make that leap towards me. I don't even know what else to say besides tears. Just thinking of them brings overwhelming amounts of tears. I shouldn't be crying over them anymore. A normal friendship ends and it sucks for a while but you get over it and move on....Well for this one, and for me, I don't think I'll ever get over it. I invested to much of my heart into these people. When they left they took my heart with them. Thank you guys for everything you have done for me. Making me stronger, making me feel like I had a real family, helping me through every crazy obstacle life gave me and best of all loving me. You guys taught me love. I didn't think I could love until I met you guys. If any of you see this, just know that I'm sorry and I'm forever grateful I had the past decade to grow with you guys. Without you, I would've crashed and burned a long time ago.

[itsworn]

“Going to Hell” Reader Responses

Well, it has been two days since we posted comments on a couple of not so good incidences of track safety. The readers response has been huge. What we have learned is that there are strong feelings about this and mostly that there are a lot of tracks doing the right thing.

In the comments portion of the posted story we heard from racers saying things like,

“It’s a shame this happened. I have been following this and I am disappointed that the series has not provided an answer other than we are investigating it. How hard is it to ask what happened in this case? I am thinking there is more to the story.”

“It’s pretty sad this driver or when any driver, has to put his own fire out! Run over to a safety truck, grab extinguisher, and put it out while safety crew stands there and watches!”,

“The series should be responsible also. Joke.”,

“That car could have been saved!!”.

In years past we came to the conclusion that only a very small percentage of the readers who have an opinion actually responded and write to us about an article, even one that has this much passion attached to it. Based on that assumption, there has to be thousands of racers irate over this incident. On this topic, I received many emails. Here are a few of the comments to me. In keeping with my promise, I won’t reveal all of the names.

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve screamed at my TV, live feed, and in person, at some of the near tragedies I’ve witnessed. In 2017 we have limitless research, skilled engineering, solid science, just plain old smart people, that can make facilities better. Please note I didn’t say ‘safer’, simply better.”,

“Evaluation for Flat Rock Speedway – I’m a driver in a weekly series at the track and unfortunately, I am scoring it a one (1). It is a great track, has a descent owner with ARCA backing but they have no regard for safety or the investment we have in our equipment. I’m also not sure of their training and whether or not they are prepared.”

Not all of the comments were negative. These readers wrote to praise their safety crews:

“If I would have rated them last year it would have been about a 5 at most. But this spring Kalamazoo Speedway had training classes and our safety crew attended, they learned a lot, and the plan is for them to attend every. This year I would rate them about a 7, and willing to learn more!”

“I race at Star Speedway in Epping, N.H. and they use Speedway Safety Services. These are the same crews that work the Cup races at NHMS. I feel very comfortable with safety there and would rank them at a 10. They’re all trained in motorsports emergencies and have specifically designed trucks and equipment. What Star has should be the standard for short tracks across the country.”

“I just read your article on track safety crews. I race at Ohsweken Speedway in Ontario, Canada. I can’t complement our guys enough. They are well trained, and we’ll equipped. They take their job seriously often getting to the crash site before the car comes to rest. A couple of years ago I barrel rolled out of turn two. There was some fluid leaking. They got me out of the car in about 20 seconds and had the car on its wheels almost immediately.”

“Maryland International Raceway. They get a 20!! Two fire trucks, two ambulances, and dedicated people to run them.”

“We run at Berlin Raceway in Marne, MI. I have to give our safety crews a 10. I have seen plenty of accidents, rollovers, and fires with my husband being involved in a couple that destroyed our car. They are always prompt and professional and always have what is needed in every situation that comes about. I thank you for wanting to improve track safety all over.”

We also got a lot of responses from promoters and safety officials at race tracks too, like these:

“Dear Sir, I am the director of Emergency Services at Raceway Park.  I read your recent online article and in some ways tend to agree with you.  Here, all my staff are certified EMT’S or Firefighters with at least Fire 1 certification.  On top of that ALL staff take the NFPA 610 Racetrack Response course. The majority of my staff have been here for more than five years, myself for 45. We do everything possible to insure our driver’s, moto riders and patrons safety.  Sadly, those few “bad apples” shine a bright negative light on us all. I hope you’ll get a few positive responses from our racers. I welcome all honest feed back. Bob Jessen, Director of Emergency Services, Old Bridge Twp Raceway Park.” 

“I have been thrust into situations in the South (Bob Bolles, you were there for some of those races) where, if I had my druthers, we would have loaded up and gone home. We raced and got lucky. I’ve been fortunate to have quality rescue and fire services at the tracks I have promoted. You get what you pay for as a rule. And if you care about your racers you will pay willingly.”

This one is a bit long, but packed with good information:

“I am the Operations Chief for Speedway Volunteer Fire Department. Speedway Fire is a State recognized volunteer Fire Department that specializes in Motorsports fire rescue. Speedway provides fire rescue services to local tracks in the inland empire and I would consider us to be one of the best in the business. Most all of our Volunteers are certified firefighter EMTs and have extensive training in motorsports fire rescue.

One of the biggest problems I see at other small tracks is a lack of training as well as proper equipment and personal protective gear. If the rescuers are not properly equipped and trained how can they do their job safely and effectively. One major issue and question to ask is whether the fire crew are properly trained for medical situations.

My Firefighters train extensively on driver assessment as soon as we get to the driver providing there are no immediate threats such as fire. First and foremost is life before property and driver safety is our #1 priority. If it means putting ourselves in harm’s way to rescue a driver from a burning car, well that’s just part of the job.

Track safety I think has gone to the wayside at the local level due to money. We get less and less respect from track officials as well as drivers. Track officials want to get the wreck cleaned up and resume racing as quickly as possible with little to no regard for drivers and allowing the driver to get checked out. I have actually had Firefighters shoved out of the way by drivers for simply trying to make sure they are ok.

We operate on a shoestring budget and all of our Firefighters are Volunteer and it makes it very hard to keep our crews motivated and willing to do the job when we don’t get the backing and respect at the tracks. I feel that most Safety crews probably feel the same and are not going to put in the effort if they don’t have the backing from the track promoters or the drivers and the teams. I feel the track promoters should take a more active role in making sure they have trained and properly equipped crews working their tracks. Thank you, Ronnie Gilman, Operations Chief, Speedway Volunteer Fire Department.”

And finally this one:

“Tracks have a responsibility to be better at hosting a dangerous sport. I’ve worked everything from Concord’s 1/5th mile to Indianapolis Speedway. They can all do better.”

Seeing all of these responses tells me something profound. If the promoters who are not doing the best job of putting together a responsible safety crew think that the racers are ignorant of your disregard for their safety, then maybe you need to take a good look around you at the next race. Talk to a few of the teams and get their opinions on how you are doing with track safety. Or, are you afraid of the answers you might get? If so, then maybe you need to find something else to do.

In the past, racers have taken it upon themselves to send a message when they think their lives and property are in danger. Some years ago, at Texas Motor Speedway, Indy car drivers decided it was way too fast and way too dangerous to race there and refused to participate that year. I’m not saying you should do that at your track necessarily, but then again, what’s more important, a race or the safety of the participants. It’s your choice by the way, nobody is forcing you to race.

I find it interesting that many promoters think that they are providing the racer with the opportunity to race and those same racers should somehow get down on their knees and thank said promoter for allowing them show up. This is not the way it is friends. Without the racer, the promoter does not have a show. So, who should be down on their knees? Just saying, you the racer can and should control the level of safety at your track.

A few years ago, New Smyrna Speedway had an unfortunate incident where in practice a late model burned to the ground. Since that time, they have acquired a state of the art foam fire suppression system and are now ready in case that situation arises again. In other words, they reacted to a need for more safety and did what was right.

The post “Going to Hell” Reader Responses appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[jrgarcia]

Is It a Crossover ? A Hatchback? Or Both?

The Mazda CX-3 was designed with the purpose of replacing Mazda’s smallest vehicle, the Mazda 2, in the U.S. marketplace; if you’re looking for one, a variant of the ‘2’ is now sold in the U.S. as the Toyota iA. The CX-3, now in its sophomore year of production, has made its presence known at the crossover lunch table that it is presumably here to stay, so long as people still enjoy small crossover vehicles with a sporty flavor and low MSRP. The 2017 Mazda CX-3 is smaller than the Mazda 3, but it is sold as a subcompact crossover. It’s a category I’ve never fully understood, because why would people want a SUV that is smaller – or equal in size to – a compact car? The logic didn’t add up in my head, but now I had to test one so it was time to find out why the 2017 Mazda CX-3 AWD should be an option for someone looking in the crossover market.

Exterior

Some vehicles just have a love-or-hate appeal to them and I think the CX-3 could land on that list. It’s small, but its nose makes up 1/3 of the vehicle, leaving a small rear end. It looks like they spent most of their time designing the front and ran out of time with the rest of the car. It doesn’t look bad, but it’s not – in my view – a jaw dropper, either. I wear different styles of boots and from the right angle the CX-3 reminded me of a boot; the low front end ending with the tall tip at the end gives it that shoe appearance. The profile is the CX-3’s best side (natch), because you can see the lines of the vehicle as it rolls up and down like rolling plains of Texas. The dual tailpipes at the end do give it that sporty vibe when you walk up to it, implying that it was designed with handling in mind and it might have a sport mode.

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One of my friends said that it reminded her of her own Nissan Juke. Depending on who you are that can either be a good thing or a bad thing. I think it looks like a compact sport wagon with AWD, because it’s a hatchback with sporty capabilities that sits a little higher than a sedan.

Interior

As I mentioned earlier, the CX-3 was built to replace the compact Mazda 2. Interior space is small; even for a medium size guy like me I was surprised at how large I felt inside the CX-3. I spent a good 10 minutes adjusting the manual seats and wheel to find the right spot where I didn’t feel like I was in a one-man escape pod. I had the Mazda CX-3 during the New Year’s holiday, using it to chauffeur my friends around San Antonio. All four of us were able to fit without complaints of head room or leg space, but anyone over 5’ 10’’ will have trouble getting in and out of the back seat. The low roofline makes a low bridge for anyone who is tall.

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Our test CX-3 was the Grand Touring AWD trim level, so it came full optioned. I sat in leather, with suede inserts – the seats were also heated. The Grand Touring is equipped with a host of upgrades, including push-button start, moon roof, audio and cruise control on the steering wheel and a Bose-equipped sound system. Mazda’s have always had outstanding, really fast AC and heater systems in their cars. Doesn’t matter what the weather may be outside, because in a Mazda you can be shivering or sweating at the turn of a knob.

The CX-3 also came equipped with Mazda’s Active Driving Display, which is a little clear tinted screen that flips up when you start the car and it sitting right on top of the gauge cluster. The CX-3 only has a digital speedometer, and is hard to see in the corner of the main center gauge while shows you the RPM’s. The display shows you how fast you are going so you don’t have to take your eyes off the road to look down at the tiny box telling you the speed. For a crossover that is meant to be sporty the CX-3 is comfortable once you get the seating position just right. Everything feels tight as drum and crisp to the touch – it’s the way modern should feel.

Specs.

The 2017 Mazda CX-3 is powered by a 2.0 liter SKYACTIV-G four cylinder engine turning out 146-hp and putting 146 lb.ft of torque to the ground. The CX-3 weighs in at just a hair under 3,000 pounds. Is it fast? If it is you are not aware of it. Put your foot down and the 2.0 liter makes a not-too-pleasing noise as it tries to pull away. Sport mode is available, but unless you want to burn more gas at highway speeds do not use it; unless, of course, you are planning on having a dynamic drive. One area where the CX-3 shines is gas mileage. The 2017 Mazda CX-3 gets 27 in the city, 32 on the highway for an average of 29 mpg. I was able to get close during my week with the CX-3, averaging 28.8 mpg.

One of Mazda’s ad messages is ‘Driving Matters’ (as, obviously, does texting and applying makeup during the morning commute – ed.), so I took it to my favorite country road to see if the AWD could make me giggle. The CX-3 does not have a traditional manual option (disappointing), but you do get paddle shifters, which are a responsive answer to your commands. Powering through the corners is where you can feel the front wheels digging in to pull through the tight turn without understeer. I wish I had access to a track to find out what the CX-3’s edge of traction is. On these civilian roads I was trying my best to see if I could make the front tires misbehave and the CX-3 brushed away my attempts by sticking to the pavement like a slot car. Fast it may not be, but it still has Mazda’s endearing quality for being fun at low speeds through tight turns.

The 2017 Mazda CX-3 comes in three trim levels: Sport, Touring, and Grand Touring. Prices start at $19K and can travel up to the high 20’s. The CX-3 used for this review came with a base MSRP of $26,240, but with additional options its total final price was $28,510.

Finals Thoughts

I have always had a soft spot for Mazdas, but I do have to say that this is one I did not fall in love with. The front arm rest is directly over the cup holders, which means you have to lift it up to place your Big Gulp, and any straws in said beverage will be folded down under the arm rest.

A real 1st-world problem to be complaining about, but for nearly $30K I think it’s justified. Interior space is too small for my taste.

But my biggest issue with the CX-3 is the why. Why would someone spend $26-28,000 on a subcompact crossover? Given that you can get a lot of vehicle for that kind of money, this doesn’t make sense to me. If you want a small car with 4-doors and a big trunk, get the Mazda 3. Want all that but in a SUV appearance package? Get the Mazda CX-5, which is about to be redesigned. Both are vehicles with MSRP’s similar to the CX-3.

Someone who buys the CX-3 is someone who falls in love with it. You need to have an emotional investment in this car in order for it to make sense to you.

  Read more reviews here.

Full review of the Mazda CX-3 and figuring out what kind of vehicle its trying to be. Is It a Crossover ? A Hatchback? Or Both? The Mazda CX-3 was designed with the purpose of replacing Mazda’s smallest vehicle, the Mazda 2, in the U.S.