#Best First Coffee Roasting Machine

[pamukkalemakina20]

أنواع ماكينات تحميص القهوة والمكسرات: دليل لاختيار المعدات المناسبة

أنواع ماكينات تحميص القهوة والمكسرات: دليل لاختيار المعدات المناسبة

تلعب ماكينات التحميص دورًا حيويًا في تعزيز نكهات القهوة والمكسرات. سواء كنت من أصحاب الأعمال الصغيرة أو منتجًا على نطاق واسع، فإن فهم الأنواع المختلفة لماكينات التحميص يساعدك في اتخاذ قرار مدروس. في هذا المقال، سوف نستعرض الأنواع الرئيسية لماكينات تحميص القهوة والمكسرات المتاحة في السوق .

أنواع ماكينات تحميص القهوة

ماكينات التحميص بالدرام) الطنبور(

تعد ماكينات التحميص بالدرام هي الأكثر تقليدية والأكثر استخدامًا لتحميص القهوة. تحتوي هذه الماكينات على أسطوانة دوارة تقوم بتوزيع الحرارة بشكل متساوٍ، مما يضمن تحميصًا متناسقًا. هذه الماكينات مثالية للإنتاج على نطاق واسع وتوفر مرونة في التحكم في مستويات التحميص. إنها معروفة بإنتاج قهوة غنية وكاملة النكهة.

ماكينات التحميص بالهواء

تستخدم ماكينات التحميص بالهواء الهواء الساخن لتحميص حبوب القهوة، مما يسمح لها بالطفو بحرية أثناء التحميص. هذه الماكينات أكثر كفاءة في استهلاك الطاقة وتوفر عملية تحميص أسرع. يفضلها العديد من أصحاب العمليات الصغيرة الذين يبحثون عن دقة في التحميص وملف نكهة خفيف.

ماكينات التحميص الهجينة

تجمع ماكينات التحميص الهجينة بين تقنيتي التحميص بالدرام والهواء. تم تصميم هذه الماكينات لتوفير أفضل ما في كلا الجانبين اتساق أكبر وسرعة أعلى. إنها متعددة الاستخدامات، مما يسمح للمحامص بتجربة أساليب مختلفة في التحميص.

أنواع ماكينات تحميص المكسرات

ماكينات التحميص بالدرام للمكسرات

تشبه هذه الماكينات ماكينات التحميص بالدرام الخاصة بالقهوة، حيث تحتوي على أسطوانة دوارة تقوم بتسخين المكسرات بشكل متساوٍ. تسُتخدم هذه الماكينات عادة لتحميص كميات كبيرة من المكسرات وتوفر تحميصًا ثابتاً مع الحد الأدنى من خطر الاحتراق. هذه الماكينات مثالية للوز، والفول السوداني، وال��اجو ،والمكسرات الأخرى الشائعة.

ماكينات التحميص المستمر للمكسرات

تم تصميم ماكينات التحميص المستمر للمكسرات من أجل الإنتاج عالي الحجم. تستخدم هذه الماكينات نظام حزام ناقل ينقل المكسرات عبر غرفة تسخين، مما يسمح بالتحميص المستمر. تضمن هذه الماكينات تحميصًا موحداً، وهي مناسبة لعمليات التحميص المكسرات على نطاق واسع.

ماكينات التحميص الدوارة للمكسرات

تستخدم ماكينات التحميص الدوارة أسطوانة دوارة لضمان تحميص المكسرات بشكل متساوٍ. وهي فعالة بشكل خاص للمنتجات التي تتطلب تحكمًا دقيقًا في درجة الحرارة ووقت التحميص. تسُتخدم هذه الماكينات عادة لتحميص دفعات أصغر من المكسرات الفاخرة.

الخاتمة

يعتمد اختيار ماكينة التحميص المناسبة على عوامل مثل المنتج، حجم الدفعة، والنكهة المطلوبة. تشمل ماكينات تحميص القهوة نماذج الدرام، والهواء، والتهوية، والهجينة، التي تقدم تجارب تحميص فريدة. بالنسبة للمكسرات ،توفر الخيارات مثل ماكينات التحميص بالدرام، والمستمر، والهواء الساخن، والدوارة حلولًا لاحتياجات الإنتاج المختلفة.

يضمن اختيار الماكينة المناسبة التناسق والجودة ورضا العملاء. لمزيد من المعلومات أو لاختيار الحل المثالي لاحتياجات عملك، تواصل مع شركة باموكالي ماكينة، المزود الموثوق للمعدات عالية الجودة للتحميص.

[buckysouvenir]

the new uniform bucky’s new uniform got you feeling all types of way. warning: 18+ content! ps.: (thunderbolts* spoilers… kind of. idk marvel spoiled everything already)

The low hum of the coffee machine and the scent of strong roast filled the apartment, but neither of those things held your attention.

Bucky Barnes—your boyfriend, your weakness, your absolute problem—was standing in the hallway, zipping up the sleek new suit that hugged every inch of him like a secret weapon.

You’d seen him in a lot of things: bloodied fatigues, loose cotton shirts, towels (God bless towels). But this?

This New Avengers suit?

It was practically rude.

“You’re doing it again,” Bucky called over his shoulder without looking. “That thing where you stare like I’m the last slice of cake.”

You didn’t even try to deny it this time.

“Cake doesn’t make my thighs clench,” you muttered, not quite quietly enough.

That got his attention.

Bucky turned, his vibranium arm glinting faintly in the morning light, and smirked. “Clench, huh?”

You sipped your coffee, legs curled under you on the couch. You were in one of his shirts—big, soft, still smelling like him—and not much else.

“You look good,” you said, voice calm even though your heart was picking up pace. “Like… absurdly good. That suit should come with a warning label.”

He chuckled, walking toward you with lazy confidence. “You think the New Avengers want a guy who’s late on his first day?”

You leaned back slightly, resting your coffee on the table as he stopped in front of you.

“I think,” you said, tugging on the front of his suit, “they’d understand if you had to deal with… an emergency at home.”

“Oh?” Bucky raised an eyebrow, but his voice had dropped a note lower. “What kind of emergency are we talking about, doll?”

You grinned, fingers sliding down his chest, tracing the grooves of his suit. “The kind that involves a very, very turned-on girlfriend… who woke up extra needy today and really wants to make out with her super-soldier boyfriend before he goes off to play hero.”

His breath hitched, subtle but noticeable. “Make out, huh?”

You were already pulling him down by the collar before he could tease you further.

The kiss started deep—hot, urgent, greedy. The kind that made your toes curl and your mind go blank. He tasted like peppermint and coffee and the kind of safety that still managed to get your heart racing.

His gloved hands found your waist, gripping tight even through the thick fabric of his suit, and you arched into him with a soft moan.

“I just finished getting dressed,” he murmured against your lips.

“You can get dressed again,” you whispered, already fumbling with the belt at his waist.

“Babe…” he warned, half-hearted at best.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” you smirked, slipping a hand between his armor and the waistband of his pants. “Use them wisely.”

His lips crashed back into yours.

In a blur, he had you laid out on the couch, his armored body hovering over yours like he was afraid to crush you—but desperate to be close. You could feel the heat of him through his suit, the tension in every controlled movement. It was sexy. Too sexy.

He kissed down your jaw, across your throat, mouthing at the sensitive skin just beneath your ear as your fingers tangled in his hair.

“You really like the suit that much?” he murmured against your skin, voice gravelly with want.

“I like you in anything,” you gasped. “But this? This is some next-level roleplay fantasy come to life.”

He laughed softly, his lips brushing your collarbone. “Remind me to wear it next time we’re actually alone for more than five minutes.”

You arched your back, pressing your body against his. “You’ve got five left.”

He groaned, rocking against you, clearly debating whether to keep his pants on or risk it.

You didn’t give him a chance to decide.

Your hand slid down, confidently, tugging at the waistband of his suit pants with enough urgency that it left no room for doubt.

“Y/N…” he rasped, bracing a hand on the arm of the couch beside your head, his body taut with restraint. “You really want to do this right now?”

You looked up at him, pupils blown wide, heat blooming low in your stomach.

“I need you,” you said simply. “Like this. In the suit. Right now.”

That was all it took.

With a muffled curse, he pulled back just enough to shove his pants down, his cock already hard and leaking at the tip. You reached for him, wrapping your fingers around him in a slow, practiced stroke that made him curse again, louder this time.

“Shit—doll, you’re gonna kill me.”

“I’ll make it quick,” you teased, pulling him back down for a kiss, deep and hot, while you hooked your legs around his waist and guided him right where you wanted.

“Wait—” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye, breath ragged. “Are you—?”

You nodded, voice thick with need. “I’m good. I want you. Please, Bucky.”

He groaned again, and then he was pressing forward, sliding into you in one smooth, perfect thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my God—” you gasped, arching under him.

He filled you so completely it was dizzying, and for a moment, neither of you moved—just breathing, tangled, shaking with restraint.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first, deep and steady, each thrust sending sparks shooting through your veins. The cool metal of his vibranium hand gripped your thigh tightly while his flesh hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so he could mouth at your throat.

You raked your nails down the back of his suit, helpless to stay quiet as your hips rocked up to meet his.

“Faster,” you whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Don’t hold back, Buck. I can take it.”

Something in him snapped at that.

He growled low in his throat and obeyed—his pace increasing, his thrusts rougher now, deeper, desperate. The couch creaked under the rhythm of your bodies, and the sound of skin against skin, broken only by breathy gasps and whispered curses, filled the room.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “So warm. So perfect.”

You tightened around him at the praise, a high whimper escaping your lips as your body started to tremble.

“Bucky— I’m close—”

“I got you, baby,” he whispered, angling his hips just right, hitting that spot that made you cry out.

Your orgasm crashed over you with a blinding intensity, your back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure tore through you in waves. You clenched around him so tightly he nearly lost control right then.

“Fuck—gonna come—” he choked out, slamming into you once, twice more before he buried himself deep and spilled inside you with a groan that sounded like your name.

He collapsed against you, panting, both of you sweaty and shaking and completely wrecked.

For a long moment, you just lay there—tangled, trembling, hearts racing.

Eventually, he shifted enough to look down at you, brushing your damp hair back with the softest touch.

“Well,” he murmured with a grin, “guess I’m really gonna be late now.”

You laughed breathlessly, cupping his face. “Totally worth it.”

He kissed you again, slow this time, tender.

Then he glanced at the clock and winced. “They are never gonna let me live this down.”

“Tell them your girlfriend has needs,” you said with a smirk.

He stood reluctantly, tugging his pants back up, adjusting his suit—and shooting you a look that was part exasperated, part adoring, and entirely his.

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered.

You winked. “Only for you, Sergeant.”

[buckysleftbicep]

notes on napkins 𐙚 s.r

pairing: steve rogers x barista!reader

warnings: nothing but loads and loads of fluff to make your day!

word count: 3k

summary: just a barista, a rainy café, and the quiet way steve leaves his heart behind—one napkin doodle at a time.

a/n: oh my gosh, i used to work in cafes, and i absolutely love this idea! please let me know what you think! love ya guys and stay safe!

The first time Steve Rogers walked into you coffee shop, you didn’t even realise who he was. 

At least not right away. It had been one of those mornings that felt like the city of New York had pulled a blanket over its head. The sky outside was a low-hanging canvas of pewter grey, and fine, steady drizzle had painted everything in a watery shimmer.

The rain was pitter pattering against the wide glass windows like a quiet metronome, while the soft hum of indie music and the hiss of the espresso machine filled the quaint little space with a warmth that made the ever so busy streets outside feel very far away. 

You liked mornings like this, where it was slow, sleepy, it smelled like cinnamon and dark roast, where the regulars would wander in, wrapped in soft scarves and sweaters as they seeked something warm and familiar, a latte or perhaps one of your shop’s best selling blueberry muffins. 

The bell above the door had jingled softly, and you had glanced up from the counter out of habit. 

Steve had stepped in almost like he didn’t quite belong, almost as if the world outside had followed him in on the soles of his boots. Tall, broad-shouldered, a little rain damp around the edges. A navy jacket clung to his frame, his hair—short and golden and tousled from the drizzle was already starting to dry off.

He had looked like a painting you could probably find in an old war-era magazine, only somehow more human. Like if you touched him, he’d be warm.

He didn’t look at you at first, he stood for a beat near the door, blinking at the chalkboard menu with a hint of hesitation, his presence, quiet but heavy, almost as if gravity had settled around him. As if even in stillness, he carried the weight of something larger than himself. 

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and offered your best barista smile, hoping to make him feel a little more comfy. “Good morning”. 

That’s when he looked at you, and that’s when it hit you. 

Oh. 

It was him. 

Steve Rogers. Captain America. The Captain America. Shield-wielding Avenger, a literal national icon, you remembered him from the school trips to the Smithsonian, blonde hair, blue eyes, war hero. He was standing in your doorway, like a quiet storm cloud, wet around the edges, slightly flustered and blinking like he hadn’t quite found his footing. 

“Uh…just a coffee,” he said finally, stepping toward the counter, his voice was low, warm, a little rough around the edges—like gravel in honey. Steve had hesitated, glancing once more at the menu above your head. “Black, please”. 

Your brain had chosen that exact moment to short-circuit. 

“Oh, of course” you had said quickly, fumbling for a cup, trying to keep your hands from visibly shaking. “Just black, coming right up”. 

You didn’t look up again, until you handed it to him. He gave you a quiet thank you, eyes meeting yours with that polite, boyish sort of smile—the one that made your stomach do something fluttery and well, mildly embarrassing. 

You watched Steve go, pretending you weren’t watching. He had taken the far corner table by the window, the one with the wide view of the street outside. He sat like he needed to fold himself smaller, shoulders hunched just slightly forward as though he didn’t want to take up more space than necessary.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him cradle the paper cup in both hands, fingertips pressed gently to the sides for warmth, gaze drifting through the window. 

He looked…tired, not the bad kind of tired, he looked like someone used to carrying the weight of the world, someone who was just quietly resting for once. 

And you felt it, something gentle and inexplicable tugging at the back of your ribs, something about the way he sat in the soft morning light, rain trailing lazy paths down the window beside him, felt achingly human. Lonely, maybe but peaceful too. 

You wiped the counter for the third time in two minutes and pretended your heart wasn’t still doing flips. 

He stayed longer than most people did. Didn’t pull out a phone, didn’t ask for wifi. Just sat, watched the rain, drank his coffee, like he had nowhere else to be. 

And then just as quietly as he arrived, he stood, tossed his cup, and left without another word.

The bell chimed as the door shut behind him. And that was that, you had stood there, blinking after him. You didn’t know he would be back the next day. 

And the day after that. 

And, well, everyday after that. 

“Morning” Steve had said the fourth time he came in, his voice a little lighter now, the edges of shyness worn down. You had looked up from the espresso machine, your hands stilling for half a second, the smile that bloomed on your face wasn’t the automatic one you have your customers, it was warmer, real. 

“Good morning, Captain” you teased, one brow raised, your eyes catching the sparkle of something mischievous beneath his usual calm. 

He had paused, just long enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch, his expression was the kind of deadpan that barely hid his smirk, like he had walked straight into your trap and yet, he didn’t even mind.

“Steve’s fine” he had replied with the kind of patience that said he had heard Captain one too many times but somehow wasn’t annoyed by it coming from you. 

You tilted your head slightly, the tiniest tilt of mock consideration, “alright,” you had said, tone as warm as honey. “Steve”. 

Because how could you not?

He had settled into his seat, shrugging out of his jacket with practiced ease, then from the inner pocket, he pulled out a small sketchbook. You recognised it now—thin leather cover, corners worn and creased, like it had seen the inside of too many pockets and too many years. He opened it casually, and with a pencil held between strong fingers, he began to draw. 

Steve didn’t hunch or fidget like most people did, his posture remained relaxed but still—elegant in its ease. His hand moved in smooth, confident lines, his brows furrowed slightly, just enough to show focus, the kind of look that said he was somewhere else entirely—in a world only he could see. 

The shop was quiet, only a few customers lost in their own rituals, and yet the air felt heavier with him in it. Not in an overbearing way, no, more like gravity, like the place had shifted around him, quietly rearranged itself to accommodate his presence. Not because he demanded it but because that was just how he was. 

When Steve left, he didn’t say much, just a soft nod in your direction and a ghost of a smile, his cup going into the trash, he had put his jacket back on, the bell chiming once more as the door swung shut behind him. 

But when you went to clean his table, you saw it. 

A napkin. Left deliberately, placed in the centre of the table like a calling card. 

Drawn in neat strong pencil lines was a cartoon version of your shop’s logo. Only the little coffee bean mascot—normally smiling beside a latte was now flexing with two tiny arms and lifting a pair of dumbbells. Big cartoon muscle, tiny sweat drops, it was utterly ridiculous. 

Beneath it, written in perfectly blocky handwriting, all caps but still somehow charming: STRONG BREW. 

You stared at it for a moment, heart stuttering like a dropped beat, then you laughed, full and bright, before you could yourself. It had bubbled out of you, warm and delighted and loud enough that your coworker glanced over with a raised brow from the pastry case. 

You cleared your throat quickly, but the grin stayed. 

Your fingers brushed over the napkin’s edge, careful not to smudge the pencil. You had folded it with deliberate care, tucking it beneath the register—behind the spare pens and post-notes and where no one else would see. 

Your cheeks were still warm when you turned back to the espresso machine. 

Steve didn’t write his number, didn’t sign his name. 

But it felt like the start of something anyway. 

And the next morning, when he walked in and said, “morning,” with that quiet little smile?

You were already reaching for the napkin.

It became a thing. 

Everyday like clockwork, Steve Rogers would walk through the door of your shop at exactly 7:33 am. 

Not 7:30. Not 7:35. 

7:33.

You checked, you started checking without meaning to, gaze finding the clock right before the bell above the door chimed, like your body had learned his rhythm before your brain had caught on. 

He always came alone, always wore the same jacket, always said “good morning” like it meant something. And always ordered the same thing—black coffee, one sugar now. A quiet evolution that made you smile every time you reached for the sugar packet.

He’d offer a soft thank you, fingers brushing yours like a habit, he would settle into the window seat like it had always been his. At times, the sunlight would catch the edge of his sketchbook, highlighting pages that had been flipped and filled with steady hands and his careful heart. 

You never asked what he was drawing, he never said. But when he left, there would always be a napkin waiting. 

A soft gift. 

At first they were silly things—almost as if they were quiet jokes that he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. 

A tiny superhero made entirely of cappuccino foam, cape made of steam and arms mid-fight. 

A croissant with a star-spangled shield, mid leap.

But as the days passed, the sketches started to shift, they grew softer, gentler, more watchful somehow. 

One morning, you found a sketch of the front of the shop, the window you cleaned every morning before opening, the little chalkboard sign you rewrote weekly, the ivy plant that hung a little crooked in the corner—Steve had drawn that too.

All of it captured in soft, deliberate pencil strokes, the rain on the glass had been rendered in streaks, a detail so small, you wouldn’t have expected anyone to notice. 

And then, there was that napkin. 

You found it midshift, in the same spot where he always left them, at first it had looked like another cafe scene—until your breath caught. 

It was you. 

A quick caricature, drawn with a light, fond touch, clearly sketched with memory, not distance. You behind the counter, apron strings flying like wind had caught them, your hair pulled into the ponytail just the way you wore it, your hand pouring steamed milk into a cup, latte art just beginning to form. 

You weren’t glamorous, weren’t posed. You were, well, you, a little lopsided, real and caught in motion. 

And somehow…in the sketch, you looked beautiful. 

You stared at it for a long moment, frozen in the middle of wiping the table. The world around you blurred with the hum of conversation and coffee grinders, but the space behind your ribs felt full.

Sweet. Like your heart had been wrapped in cotton. 

Eventually, you folded the napkin carefully—like it might fall apart if you were not gentle. You slipped it into your apron pocket, tucked against your chest like a secret no else needed to know.

It stayed there for the rest of the day. At times, your hand would drift to it without thinking. Just a light brush, like you were checking it was still real.

And when you saw him again the next morning, smile soft and tired at exactly 7:33?

You handed him his coffee with a heart that fluttered so hard, you were surprised he couldn’t hear it over the hum of the espresso machine.

You weren’t sure when the butterflies started.

Maybe around the tenth napkin—when you had started anticipating them, looking forward to the way his sketches somehow always made your day better.

Maybe it was the first time he walked in and said your name like he’d been waiting all morning to do so. His voice, deep, soft and oh so familiar. Like it tasted good in his mouth.

Maybe it was when he laughed—really laughed—at one of your dumb jokes, head tipping back, eyes crinkling at the corners, and your stomach did something humiliatingly theatrical in response, almost as if it had turned into a stage and thrown confetti.

You weren’t supposed to have a crush on Captain America, for God’s sake.

But the truth was… he didn’t feel like that version of himself in here. Not the Avenger. Not the icon. Not the face on recruitment posters and history books.

He just felt like Steve.

A quiet man who liked his coffee strong, his sketches soft, and his mornings slow. A man who always said thank you like he meant it, who lingered by the counter just long enough so that your hands brushed a little more than they needed to.

And maybe, just maybe, he lingered on purpose.

“Do you ever take a break?” Steve had asked one slow Friday morning, his voice low, laced with something playful as he nodded toward the bar where you stood wiping a counter that had been clean for the last ten minutes.

You had glanced up, caught off guard. “Once in a while.”

He tapped the end of his pencil against the edge of the table—soft, rhythmic. “You should sit.”

You blinked, “With you?”

A flush crept up his neck, turning his ears pink. “If you would like to.”

Your heart had pounded in your chest but you nodded, untying your apron halfway as you crossed the room, sliding into the seat across from him with the kind of nervous grace that came from wanting to look more composed than you actually felt.

Steve closed the sketchbook slowly, carefully, almost as if he was trying not to scare off the moment. 

“I hope I haven’t been annoying, with all the… drawings.” he started, shy smile on his face. 

You shook your head, too fast. “No. God, no. They’re—” You smiled, a little breathless. “They’re wonderful Steve, I keep them, actually.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “You do?”

You bite your lip, a little sheepish as you nod, “I have a box under the counter, though I think I might need a second one soon.”

Steve chuckled, low and warm, but something in his expression shifted into something tender and unsure, like the idea of being cherished caught him off guard. 

Like he wasn’t used to being wanted.

Not without the shield, the red, white and blue. 

Not without the world needing him to be more.

“You’re really good,” you add gently, letting the quiet fill the space between words. “You notice things, the little things that most people miss.”

He shrugged, gaze dropping, but his smile lingered. “It really helps when the subject’s easy to look at.”

The words landed like a skipped heartbeat, your breath caught as Steve looked away, bashful, the tips of his ears reddening again.

And before you could even process how to respond, he reached for the sketchbook, flipping to a page with a kind of softness, his gaze lingering for a moment before he carefully tore it out along the seam and slid it across the table toward you.

You stared.

It was a sketch of you, different from the napkin doodles, and yet more intimate somehow, it was detailed, full of quiet stillness. The slope of your shoulders behind the counter, the curl of your fingers around a ceramic cup, the way your eyes were turned toward the window, caught in some distant thought, like you had drifted somewhere he could see but not follow.

Steve didn’t say anything right away, he just watched you take it in.

“I didn’t want to leave that one behind,” he said finally, voice soft, gentle, “Didn’t feel right, I felt like it was yours.”

You held the drawing like it might fade if you blinked too hard, your fingertips pressing gently into the paper, like anchoring a heartbeat.

“Steve…”

He leaned back into his chair slightly, running a thumb along the edge of the sketchbook still in his lap.

“I like this place,” he said, almost too quietly. “I feel like I can breathe in here.”

You looked up, eyes meeting his baby blue ones.

So do I.

But you didn’t say it.

Instead, you smiled—touched and a little dazed—and folded the drawing with careful hands, sliding it between the pages of your own notebook like something sacred.

You didn’t need to say it.

He already knew.

The napkin he left the next morning was different, this one had writing, not a sketch, it had just a few words, in that careful, blocky script of his:

“Would you let me take you to dinner? Just Steve. Just me.”

You stared at it for what felt like years.

The shop buzzed softly around you—milk steaming, cups clinking, the light drizzle tapping gently at the windows, but all of it faded into the background. All you could see was the way his letters leaned slightly to the right, almost like he had hesitated, then meant every word on it.

When you looked up, Steve was already at the door, hand resting on the knob, shoulders tense with the weight of a held breath, he turned back, eyes searching, hope flickering in those blue irises, quiet and unguarded.

You held up the napkin, a smile tugging at your lips, and you nodded.

The way his face lit up, gentle, stunned, full of that boyish wonder he always tried to hide made your chest ache in the best way.

He left with that smile still on his face.

And well, your heart stayed a little lighter for the rest of the day, tucked safely into your apron pocket with that very napkin. 

Just Steve.

Just you.

 And maybe—something beginning.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!

[writeriguess]

FIRST I WANNA SAY IM SO HAPPY YOUR BACK!!! But can i please have big buff himbo kirishma falling in love with the sweet curvy chubby sweetheart he always sees on his and bakubros patrol route

author's note: thank you! I'm happy to be back too <3

Patrol Love

Kirishima Eijiro prided himself on being a dependable hero, someone civilians could count on to protect them with a smile. He was confident in his abilities and took every patrol seriously—even if his partner, Bakugo, was more prone to scowling than waving at passersby. Their patrols were part of their daily grind as pro heroes, but recently, Kirishima found himself looking forward to one particular stretch of their route more than the others.

It all started with a coffee shop. Not the coffee itself—though it smelled incredible every time they passed—but because of you.

The first time he noticed you, he hadn’t thought much of it. You were outside the shop, stacking small chalkboards advertising seasonal drinks. You’d looked up as they walked by, smiled warmly, and gave a polite wave. Kirishima had waved back instinctively, his grin wide and genuine.

The second time, you were inside, wiping down tables. Again, you looked up and waved, and again, Kirishima found himself waving back. There was something about your smile—bright and sweet—that stuck with him for the rest of the day.

By the fifth time, he was actively looking for you every time they approached the shop. And you were always there, always smiling, and always waving. It wasn’t just that you were cute, though you absolutely were. Your cheerful demeanor, the way your curves filled out the shop’s apron so perfectly, and the kindness in your eyes had him hooked. He didn’t even realize how obvious he was being until Bakugo called him out.

“You’re acting like an idiot, Red,” Bakugo muttered one morning, catching Kirishima craning his neck as they passed the shop. Sure enough, there you were, wiping down the counters and glancing up just in time to wave.

“Shut up, man,” Kirishima grumbled, trying to play it cool. “She’s just… nice, okay?”

“Nice?” Bakugo snorted. “You’re practically drooling. Just go talk to her already.”

Kirishima’s face flushed bright red, but the idea stuck with him. Why hadn’t he talked to you? He wasn’t shy, not normally. But something about you had his stomach flipping and his palms sweating.

The opportunity came a few days later. The morning was brisk, the air carrying the scent of roasted coffee beans as they neared the shop. Kirishima’s heart was pounding in his chest, but he steeled himself and turned to Bakugo.

“Gimme ten minutes, yeah?”

“Whatever,” Bakugo grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning against a lamppost. “Just don’t embarrass yourself.”

Kirishima took a deep breath and walked into the shop. The bell above the door jingled softly, and the warmth of the interior enveloped him immediately. You were behind the counter, arranging pastries in the display case. When you looked up and saw him, your eyes widened slightly before your face lit up with that familiar smile.

“Hi there,” you said, your voice as sweet as honey. “What can I get for you?”

“Uh… hi,” Kirishima stammered, suddenly feeling like a nervous teenager. “I thought I’d grab a coffee today. You know, try the place out.”

“Good choice,” you replied with a soft laugh that made his heart flip. “What’s your go-to?”

He glanced at the menu, his mind blanking entirely. “Uh… whatever you like best. Surprise me.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Alright, trust me on this one?”

“Always,” he said, then winced at how eager he sounded. But you just smiled and turned to the espresso machine.

While you worked, Kirishima glanced around the shop, trying to calm his racing heart. The place was cozy, filled with soft lighting and the hum of conversation from a few other customers. It suited you, he thought. Warm and inviting, just like you.

When you handed him the drink—a creamy caramel mocha topped with whipped cream—you smiled shyly. “Here you go. First one’s on the house. Consider it a thank-you for keeping the city safe.”

“Wow, thanks,” he said, his grin wide as he accepted the cup. “But next time, I’m buying. Deal?”

“Deal,” you replied, your cheeks flushing slightly.

He took a sip and let out an appreciative hum. “This is amazing! You’ve got great taste.”

You laughed, and the sound was music to his ears. “Glad you like it.”

From that day on, stopping by the shop became a regular part of Kirishima’s patrol—much to Bakugo’s annoyance. Each visit, your conversations grew a little longer. He learned that you’d been running the shop for a few years and loved getting to know the regulars. You learned that he was just as sweet and genuine off duty as he seemed on patrol.

One morning, as he lingered by the counter, you hesitated before speaking. “You know,” you began, twirling a loose thread on your apron, “I was kind of hoping you’d stop by today.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his heart pounding.

“Yeah.” You smiled shyly, glancing up at him. “I was wondering if, maybe, you’d like to grab coffee sometime. You know, when you’re not on patrol.”

Kirishima’s jaw nearly dropped, but he recovered quickly, his face splitting into the widest grin yet. “I’d love that. Really.”

“Great,” you said, your smile mirroring his. “It’s a date, then?”

“Definitely a date.”

As he left the shop, coffee in hand and heart soaring, Bakugo raised an eyebrow at him. “Finally grew a pair, huh?”

“Shut up, man,” Kirishima said, laughing as he shoved his friend playfully. But nothing could wipe the grin off his face for the rest of the day.

Feel free to request <3

[reyesstrand]

wish you would write a fic about early boyfriend tarlos and Carlos being afraid to come on too strong and scare TK off again <3

<33

He’s halfway through heating up a pan for fried eggs, which he plans to present prettily on toast spread with fresh avocado and a selection of fruit he’s spent the morning carefully cutting, when doubt starts to claw at his gut.

Carlos spares a glance around his kitchen. At the flowers on the table, and the way the clear glasses he’s set out for fresh-pressed orange juice catch the beams of sunlight pouring through the window. He’s got a nice bag of coffee beans from the farmer’s market pulled out of the cabinet, waiting to be coaxed into an aromatic roast, along with a box of tea in case TK doesn’t want coffee. It’s the bright, brilliant thought of TK that makes him pause. His heart thumps a little quicker in his chest, as adoration mixes with anxiety.

He wonders if this is too much. If he’s making this a whole thing. They’ve only been official for two weeks, and this is the first time TK’s stayed over intentionally, and Carlos’ vision swims as he imagines TK’s face as he wanders into the kitchen and sees everything he’s prepared. He so vividly remembers that night, and the little frown between TK’s brows, the downward turn of his mouth, the shine in his eyes. He’d hate to spur those emotions on again.

“Um, Carlos?”

TK’s voice is like a song as it washes over him. He looks over his shoulder and sees TK descend the last couple of stairs, clad in a pair of boxers and a thick hoodie he definitely hadn’t been wearing the night before. Carlos takes in the faded Astros logo, and the squeezing in his chest eases.

“Hey, you okay?” TK asks, stepping right into his space. His green eyes are so vibrant in the morning light, and Carlos can feel himself falling in love. His gaze drifts for a split second, and those eyes widen as he takes in the early stages of Carlos’ breakfast spread. “You did all of this?”

“Figured you might be hungry,” Carlos shrugs, trying to pass it off as casual. “Thought I could whip something up.”

TK grins. “You’re the best.”

Carlos smiles into it, when TK presses a kiss to his lips. He watches, a little dazed, as TK moves into the kitchen and starts poking around; searching for mugs until he opens the right cabinet and finds a pair he can set down next to the coffee machine. With a deep breath, his fear dissipates. With a deep breath, he steps forward, into his new life.

(i wish you would write a fic where…game!)

[literaila]

wedding planner (katsuki bakugo smau)

fem!reader, no quirks, adult life au

life as an event planner is... quieter than planned. mina ashido, your best friend, views this as a challenge. so when she gets engaged to eijirou kirishima it’s no big surprise that she asks you to plan the ceremony. the objective is simple: create the most magical, perfect wedding in just four months... oh, and accept the help of someone you've been running from since college--katsuki bakugo, who conveniently hates you. easy, right?

part two | next part

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

hating bakugo katsuki comes quite naturally to you.

it's something simple. an emotion that builds in the middle of your sternum and collects in your head. you've never had to think too hard about him, or the negative feelings he invokes.

it's not that you consider yourself someone to hold grudges or make automatic assumptions. someone who hates on principle rather than facts. glimpses rather than actions.

in fact, you’d rather remain entirely nonjudgmental in most situations—so that you don’t have to worry about any of it. there are very few people in the world that you can truly say you hate.

but since he spoke his first word to you, you’ve hated him.

or maybe that’s not true. you only vaguely remember it all happening now, like a single peek of a dream you once lived.

remember seeing him across the room and feeling that you knew exactly who he was. getting one look and understanding that he just wasn’t someone for you.

blonde hair, blood eyes, and an immediate distaste for anything involving your presence. his jaw was already set, when you approached, mind already made.

it was pretty clear when he just glared, ignoring whoever had introduced the two of you, your hand outstretched towards him, and scoffed before he simply walked away.

so, really, even before bakugo katsuki spoke his first word to you—you hated him.

or maybe not. maybe you just hated the way he was looking past you automatically, maybe you just hated that he was frowning, maybe you just hated being dismissed so easily.

or maybe you hated him and the fact that he made you angry without even trying.

anger is an invasive species. it lingers in the pit of your chest, waiting for some version of confirmation bias you can reason out of.

and once it begins to grow it leaks elsewhere—into the stories you tell, the people you know, the glances and shared breaths.

it’s pretty obnoxious, just like bakugo katsuki. funny how that works, isn't it?

and, to clarify, you have spoken multiple words to him. this is nothing new. in fact, you’ve shouted bitter remarks at his back and cursed at his ever-glowing smirk. in classrooms, at parties, in the old contemptible apartments your friends lived in.

but it’s just so simple to hate him.

maybe that’s why you’re standing in front of a coffee shop you’ve never been to, staring at the door. it’s 1:07 pm.

it would be pretty easy to leave, really. you could turn around and take the train back home. back to your bed, with its comforting embrace, and your consistently sparking coffee machine. it doesn’t taste too burnt, after all, and who doesn't like some roasted grounds?

you’re already late anyway, so what’s the harm in never showing up? who is bakugo going to tell? mina?

(he will. he definitely will tell mina and by that point, you’ll have lost a client and a friend, and bakugo katsuki will be pointing and laughing at the sad remains of your life. he’ll probably spit on your shivering body—you know, once you can no longer afford to live in your apartment because you’ve been fired--just for fun).

fuck. you should’ve blocked his and mina’s number.

someone pushes past you, going for the door, and you blink. right. because you’re supposed to open it, walk through, and meet with bakugo who you already know is going to chastise you for being late. you're supposed to hate him, and it's all supposed to be easy.

you take a breath. nod once.

what the hell?

this is all his fault anyway. you would’ve been perfectly happy with doing all the work by yourself--throwing sticky notes around and ignoring the ink stains left on your face from nights sleeping at your desk--and letting kirishima and mina believe he assisted you.

as fucking if.

so you walk through the door, delighting for one brief moment in the smell of coffee beans and souls searching for rehabilitation.

this coffee shop is a lot nicer than any of the ones by your house. not that bakugo needs to know that, or that he has good taste.

just a thought, really.

you look around for a single second before you spot him. it’s easy—just one glimpse of the black shirt, overbearing shoulders, and frowning face. and every other person in the shop seems to be purposefully avoiding him, walking at least six feet away from the table he’s procured at all times.

if only you were them.

“oi,” he calls, eyes finding you faster than you'd expected, already burning as you walk towards him—against your better judgment, of course. “i know you’re an idiot but you can’t even read a fuckin’ clock, now?”

you pull the open chair out with your foot, giving bakugo a bland look. your eyes burn a little bit, just looking at him. “no, actually, i can't. they must only teach that at snobby prick school.”

you sit, your body resisting the entire time. you might last five minutes being this close to him—at most.

bakugo doesn’t say anything, but one brow goes up.

“sorry,” you say, almost reflexively. you're supposed to be civil. you can hear mina's voice criticizing, telling you to give him a chance. you continue, completely monotone. “hi, bakugo. how are you?”

he glares. “could be a hell of a lot better, that’s for sure.”

“tell me about it.”

and then there’s a moment where you both stare at each other, silent and waiting.

here’s what you know about bakugo: he’s not afraid to say whatever he’s thinking, but he’s also not the easiest person to talk to. not the type of person you’d ever feel at ease with. easy conversation isn't either of your specialties, and neither is being here all by yourselves.

so instead of anything even remotely normal, instead of getting to the point, you break the silence with, “no coffee?”

his eyes dart down to the table and then back to yours. you can see the point of his teeth when he begins to talk. “not all of us are fuckin’ addicted.”

“well, you don’t have to deal with your mood swings every day," you look around, hoping that a double shot isn't as expensive as the decor would suggest.

“such a flatterer," bakugo drawls, leaning back, "i was waitin’ for you before i ordered,” he tilts his head to the register, waiting.

“i can go up there myself. i’m a big girl."

he scoffs. “you’re a big fuckin’ mess, that’s for sure. and fuckin' broke, according to raccoon eyes. you know what you want?”

“what i want is to get out of here as soon as possible. so thanks, but no thanks. i don’t need any coffee.”

“ya sure, crazy eyes?” he's smirking like he already knows that he got you.

your eyes narrow. “don’t call me that.”

“think i'll call you whatever the hell i want.”

“then i think this partnership is already over. promise broken.”

“tch," bakugo taps a finger against the table, "i think you’ll fuckin’ reconsider once you take a good look in the mirror—did you sell your bed for some shitty cash?”

“did you sell your soul for a first-class superiority complex?” you retort, so brightly it's almost innocent.

bakugo only rolls his eyes. “didn’t you agree to come here, dumbass?”

“didn’t you demand that i show up?”

bakugo’s lip twitches, minutely. he sighs, turning an arm over to check his watch. he moves calculatingly, both of you waiting for another moment to pounce. but there isn’t time for that.

you could spout insults at him for hours, and he could do just the same. it's happened before.

but time won't slow down for that, and you've only got seventy-three days left to figure everything out.

bakugo waves a hand towards you, gesturing at your bag. “just fuckin’ show me what you have already.”

“why should i?”

he scoffs. “okay don’t. try gettin' shit done all by your goddamn self. least ill get a laugh when you crash and burn.”

“this is literally my job—“

“so show me what you fuckin’ got,” bakugo leans forward, speaking soft enough for it to be a whisper, but vehemently for it to be a threat.

and it’s safe to say that you’ve heard a lot of those from him.

“fine,” you grind out, not wanting to lose, or to let him win, but someone will have to give eventually--and bakugo can watch in awe as you figure it out yourself. he can beg at your feet for something to do. (he can talk to kirishima about what you should be doing and report back to mina to mess up your lift even more). win or lose, you don't break eye contact as you grab your bag, shoving around until you find your planner.

not that there’s a lot of planning being done. it's mainly doodles and spare numbers you’ve written down and never called. but bakugo doesn’t need to know that. he just needs to know that you're a professional, and you'll professionally shove his words back into his throat until they reach his stomach.

you flip to a page with a list of tasks that still need to be done, pen smeared across the page. none of them have been checked off--but that's not exactly your fault. you'd be getting a lot more done if bakugo hadn't made you come here... probably.

“i’ve scheduled a couple tours of venues mina told me she liked,” you say, sharp, tactful. you point to random notes on the page, hoping he can’t read. “but not for a couple of weeks. there’s cake testing, a meeting with a florist, billing from a designer mina chose, catering options, and i—“

“have you made any decisions?”

you purse your lips, moving the planner back towards you. “it’s been a month.”

he laughs. “so that’s a fuckin’ no.”

“it’s not that simple,” you tell him, snidely. “i need to talk to mina and kiri about options and it’s not like they’re going to choose right away so—“

“shitty hair told me you were taking care of it.”

“yes, that’s what a wedding planner does,” you smile. “good job, bakugo.”

he bares a canine, grinning. “no, smart ass. he said you get to make every damn decision. that they trust you to figure shit out.”

“i still need to double-check and make sure they’re happy with the progress—“

“sounds like you’re too fuckin' scared to do it yourself.” he leans back for the first time in two minutes, arms crossed against his chest.

that’s another thing you hate about bakugo katsuki. he takes all of the air and spits it right back at you. he's like a reverse black hole--just meaner.

“why would i be scared?”

“because you’re a shitty event planner.”

he's testing you, you know. trying to get a rise out of you because he can always do it so easily. trying to rile you up so he can win, so you'll walk out of the door and he'll get to say that he tried, that he was being a good friend--

and damn it, it's working. it's going to work. but you have very little dignity left, and no patience for bakugo katsuki and his arrogance.

“well,” you start, standing up. your chair screeches across the floor, a protest all of its own. “it’s been so lovely meeting with you, bakugo, but i think we’re—“

“am i fuckin' wrong?” he asks, serious, watching you with clinical eyes.

“are you a jackass?” you answer, shoving your notebook back into your bag. he doesn't deserve your lists, your time, or any of the energy you've given to him so willingly.

he snorts. “you’ve never planned a damn wedding. you have no fuckin’ clue what you’re doing.”

“oh, wow," you nod your head enthusiastically, "you know what, you’re really something,” you say, giving him another sickly sweet smile.

bakugo hasn't flinched at you once in the almost decade you've known him and maybe that's the thing you hate the most. hate that every emotion is written on your face in some fine ink, but he's a blank slate. hate that he gets to sit there and berate you, make you feel small, and have no repercussions for it.

hate that he's just looking at you, waiting for you. hate him so much.

you continue anyway. “not everyone would be able to figure out that i’m worried about messing up my best friend’s wedding—“ bakugo tries to cut in, but you hold a hand up. “no, really. it's pretty amazing, bakugo. you should think about going back to school for a common sense degree, since you’re so fucking great at using it," you shake your head, turning away abruptly.

you know that he’s still smirking.

“i’m not too proud to admit that i'm scared, bakugo. some of us can deal with our emotions.”

“ya sure?" he sounds amused. "cause it seems like you’ve got fuckin’ jack done and don’t know what to do next. wouldn’t call that dealing with your fuckin’ fear. i’d call it being a coward. freezing instead of tryin' to do a fuckin' thing.”

you glare at the wall in front of you, feeling bad for the person just sitting on their computer in your line of sight. “so what? it's not like you’re doing anything to help. you have no idea how to plan anything, so don't act like you'd do any better than me.”

“you fuckin’ sure about that?” you hear a loud noise, and bakugo is standing right beside you, his looming presence a brand at your side. “i’ve never planned a wedding but i know how to get shit done.”

you snort, finally looking at him again. “uh-huh.”

he sneers. “i’ll fuckin’ show you. c’mon.”

your pause, eyes narrowing. people are moving around the two of you, coffee cups exuding steam, eyes curious as they roam over you. bakugo taps his pockets, not bothering to notice a single one of them, and then moves beside you, heading towards the door.

“wha—what?" you ask, frowning. "where are you going?

“you gonna stand there like a damn idiot, or are you going to fuckin’ follow me?” he doesn’t turn his head, just keeps going.

and even though you’d never follow bakugo katsuki anywhere, even though you’d rather die than be alone with him, rather be broke and friendless than plan a wedding with him—you start walking.

“what the hell,” you say, and have to speed up to catch him.

if hating bakugo is easy, then following him is even easier.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

every comment and repost makes my day. thank you for reading!

next part

taglist: @ghostlykey @bakugouswh0r3 @ita606 @keylozinzazane @themultifandomgirl @akuixe @the2ndl @rednicotine @your-mum3000 @faetoraa @ineedmorethananap @augustraine

[noirscript]

dark roast | chapter two

Pairing: Laurent Delacroix × Reader Description: You thought you were making your own choices. But Laurent was always there—watching, guiding, ensuring every step led you straight to him. And now, there’s no way out. Warnings: Yandere | Manipulation | Coercion | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Obsessive Behavior | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Threats | Intimidation Update Schedule: Every Saturday. GMT+8. Note: This is part of a completed ebook available on my kofi shop! Your support is highly appreciated. Click here to purchase [Dark Roast]. There's a total of 29 chapters for this one. Also, apologize for the delay!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The rain had been falling since dawn. Slow at first, a mere drizzle against the rooftops, but by midday, it had settled into something relentless. Water streaks down the windows of Frosty Café, the muted gray light filtering in through the glass, casting a dull sheen over the worn countertops and half-empty tables.

You barely notice.

You’re too busy wiping down the espresso machine for the third time that morning, as if scrubbing harder could erase the exhaustion pressing against your bones.

The shop has been quiet all day. Too quiet.

In the past, lunchtime meant steady foot traffic—regulars slipping in for a quick cup of coffee, students occupying the corner tables with their textbooks, office workers picking up something sweet before heading back to their cubicles.

But lately, the crowds have thinned.

The air inside feels heavier now, the empty seats a stark reminder of what you’ve been trying to ignore.

The café is dying.

And you are sinking with it.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

The register beeps as you ring up a lone order—a single espresso, the first sale in nearly an hour. You force a polite smile as the customer takes their drink and walks out, leaving the café empty once again.

The silence is suffocating.

Your eyes flicker to the schedule pinned behind the counter, the red marks glaring back at you. Fewer shifts. Shorter hours. Another coworker is gone.

You know what this means.

It’s not just the café that’s struggling. It’s you.

Rent is due soon. Bills are stacking up. You’ve already cut corners wherever you could—fewer groceries, no unnecessary spending, convincing yourself you don’t really need three meals a day.

Your hands tighten around the counter.

You’ve worked so hard to hold everything together. But no matter how much effort you put in, it’s never enough.

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly.

And that’s when your best friend’s voice echoes in your mind.

"You don’t have to struggle like this."

"I’m offering you something better."

Your stomach twists.

You don’t want to take the offer. You don’t want to walk away from the job you fought to keep.

But as you stare at the nearly empty café, at the reality pressing down on you like a vice, you realize something.

You might not have a choice.

The bells above the door chime, jolting you from your thoughts. You expect to see a customer, maybe a regular, but instead, it’s her.

Your best friend steps inside, shaking the rain from her umbrella before folding it neatly. She doesn’t hesitate as she makes her way toward the counter, her gaze flicking briefly to the nearly empty shop.

She notices.

Of course, she does.

You wipe your hands on a towel, forcing a smile. “You’re out early.”

She hums in response, glancing toward the espresso machine. “Slow day?”

You shrug, hoping she doesn’t hear the exhaustion creeping into your voice. “Nothing new.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she studies you—too closely.

And that’s when you know why she’s really here.

She’s not just checking in. She came with a purpose.

You don’t say anything, just turn away to busy yourself with the machine, pretending to adjust the settings. But you can still feel her watching you, waiting.

Then, finally—

“You should consider my offer.”

You pause, your fingers hovering over the espresso machine’s buttons. You knew this was coming. You could feel it in the way she had been watching you, in the weight of her silence before she finally spoke.

Still, you force a small, dry chuckle. “You’re persistent.”

“I have to be,” she says, sliding onto one of the stools by the counter. “You’re stubborn.”

You shake your head, turning your attention back to the machine as if there’s suddenly something urgent about refilling the coffee beans. Anything to keep from meeting her eyes.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

She exhales, and you can almost hear the frustration in it.

“You’re not fine,” she says, voice quieter this time. “Look around you, Y/N. How much longer can you keep doing this?”

The name stings. She only says it like that when she’s serious, when she’s done letting you dodge the truth.

You grip the edge of the counter, shoulders tense.

“Frosty Café isn’t going to last,” she continues, softer now, almost apologetic. “You know that.”

You swallow hard. Of course, you know that.

You’ve known for a while now.

But admitting it? That’s different.

You finally turn to face her, crossing your arms. “And what? Should I just leave? Drop everything and run?”

She meets your stare without flinching. She was prepared for this.

“No one’s asking you to run,” she says calmly. “But you don’t have to let this place drag you down with it.”

Silence.

She doesn’t fill it right away. She lets it sit.

And that’s when you realize—

She’s waiting for you to break.

You hate how well she knows you.

Hate that she knew exactly what to say, how to say it.

Because now, you’re thinking about it.

You shift your weight, glancing toward the empty tables, the rain-slicked windows, the coffee machine that’s barely been used today. The quiet hum of the refrigerator feels deafening.

She’s right.

You don’t want to admit it, but she’s right.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers against your temple. “What exactly are you offering?”

You don’t miss the way her posture eases just slightly.

She knew you’d ask.

“A stable job. A managerial position at a new café.” She keeps her voice measured, professional, like she’s just stating facts. “The pay is good. The hours are better. And you wouldn’t have to worry about whether your next paycheck will actually come through.”

A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. “Sounds a little too perfect, doesn’t it?”

She doesn’t react, just tilts her head. Waiting. Watching. Letting you argue with yourself.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She’s not lying. You know she’s not.

But something about this—about the way she’s offering it, about the way she’s looking at you—feels off.

It’s as if there’s something she isn’t saying.

You narrow your eyes, studying her. She’s holding something back.

She’s too composed. Too prepared.

And that’s what makes you hesitate.

“…Why now?” you ask.

She blinks, caught off guard for the first time. “What?”

“Why are you bringing this up again now?” You gesture vaguely around the café. “You’ve mentioned it before, but today… You came here just to push this.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she picks up a sugar packet from the counter, turning it between her fingers.

Then, finally—

“I don’t want to see you struggle anymore.”

It sounds genuine. It almost convinces you.

Almost.

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “Who owns this café?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “I do.”

That part, at least, isn’t a lie.

But it still doesn’t feel like the whole truth.

Your stomach tightens. You can’t put your finger on it, but something about this doesn’t sit right.

You should say no.

You should walk away.

But when you glance back at the empty café, the dwindling supplies, the unpaid invoices stacking up in the office…

Can you afford to?

You hate this. Hate that she’s making sense.

Because deep down, you know she’s right.

You’re barely holding on. The café is already slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try, no matter how many extra shifts you take or how much you sacrifice, it won’t be enough.

It’s never enough.

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “And if I say no?”

She exhales, pressing her lips together. She knew you’d ask that too.

“I won’t force you,” she says.

But there’s something in her tone—something weighted, something final.

Like she already knows what you’ll decide.

You grip the rag in your hands, wringing it tightly. The logical part of you is screaming to take the offer, to escape before this place crushes you completely.

But there’s another part—a small, stubborn part—that still resists.

Because this isn’t just a job. It’s your last piece of stability.

And if you let go now, what happens next?

Your best friend watches you carefully, waiting for you to make the final move.

And as much as you don’t want to admit it—

She’s already won.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Your best friend isn’t the only one who’s been watching you.

You feel it again the next morning—the way your manager lingers near the counter longer than usual, the hesitant glances from the remaining staff, the way no one quite meets your eye.

And then, when the shift schedule is posted, your name is missing.

Your stomach twists as you scan the list again. It has to be a mistake.

But when you step into the back office, the café owner—a man who once trusted you with closing shifts, handling inventory, running this place like it was your own—only sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We’re making adjustments,” he says, not unkindly. “With the way things are going… we have to cut hours where we can.”

You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. “So that’s it?”

“It’s not forever,” he assures you. A lie. You hear it in his voice. “It’s just temporary.”

You nod, but it feels like someone has pulled the ground from beneath you.

Because this isn’t temporary. You know that the same way you knew the café wouldn’t survive.

The decision was never truly yours.

And as you step out of the office—feeling weightless, untethered, already slipping into the next stage of your life—you think back to your best friend’s words.

"I don’t want to see you struggle anymore."

She had known.

She had known before you did.

And that’s what frightens you most of all.

End of Chapter Two.

noirscript © 2025

taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz

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[zepskies]

Assistant Hottie

Pairing: Jason Teague x F. Reader (implied Jason T. x Lana Lang)

Summary: Jason Teague, Assistant Football Coach, meets you in the faculty break lounge at Smallville High. He tries to kick you out, thinking you’re a student. Technically, you are. Turns out, you both go to the same university. 

AN: So I know it’s about 20 years late, but I’ve been wanting to write some Jason Teague for a while now. There’s a very dated reference to iPods (remember this show was circa early 2000s).

Word Count: 2,600 Tags/Warnings: Implied love triangle (quadrangle?), fluff, tinge of angst, and a meet cute.

“Hey, Coach T!”

Jason turns his head, shooting Clark Kent a smile that’s just a little bit forced. He slows down in the busy hallway so the younger man can catch up.

Clark’s friends, Chloe Sullivan and Lana Lang keep walking, though the brunette glances his way. Her hazel eyes catch his.

But Jason focuses on Clark, who’s coming at him with all six feet and three inches of farm boy earnestness.

Jason has City Boy Charm in his arsenal.

“What’s up, man?”

Clark smiles. “Real quick, just wanted to ask you about the drills we’re running today…”

Eighth period is about to start, meaning just another hour until school ends, and another day of practice begins on the football field. Clark takes all five minutes between classes to ask his questions about how he can better move the ball, his throwing technique, how to better communicate on plays with the rest of the guys.

As always, Jason gives Clark the best advice he has to offer. Even a few months into this job, he’s still feeling a bit of imposter syndrome. He’s only a couple of years older than the guys he’s coaching, and Clark is looking at him like he’s got all the answers.

Newsflash, champ. I don’t. Jason smiles though. 

Because Clark is something else. He’s a starting quarterback of a game he’s never played before in his life. Head Coach Quigley thought it was steroids at first, but Jason had a gut feeling about the guy.

“He’s not a cheater,” he’d told Quigley. The other man had scoffed, rubbing his chin.

“Okay, Teague. If you think so,” he said. “…Make him piss in a cup anyway.”

Since then, Clark hasn’t given Jason a reason to doubt him, at least on the field.

No, his reasons for still being wary of Clark are more…personal.

“All right, we’ll workshop the rest later on the field,” Jason says, as the starting bell rings. “You’re gonna be late for class.”

“Okay, see ya later.” Clark nods and holds up a hand in goodbye. To tell the truth, Jason is a little relieved to see him go.

Instead of heading to his office, he makes a pitstop at the faculty break lounge for a cup of coffee. He could use a little pick-me-up, even if it is from a watery K-cup.

When he pushes open the door, he’s greeted by the familiar smell of stale roasted hazelnut and microwaved fish. Along with the wall-to-wall countertop and refrigerator down the end, there’s a small round table fitted with just three chairs.

Uh oh, he thinks.

You’re sitting there with a pair of earbuds in, nodding to your music while you make notes with a red pen. The contents of your messenger bag are half-strewn across the table, displaying a couple of notebooks and binders, different colored highlighters, pens, and a post-it pad.

Your back is facing him, so he has to walk around the table to get your attention. He hesitates, before he taps your shoulder. He’s never had to do this before, and he’s actually a bit nervous.

“Hey there,” he says. His lips quirk when you jolt a little. You stare up at him with wide eyes and the top of your pen resting against your lower lip. 

“Uh…” You remove your ear buds and hit pause on your iPod.

“Did you get lost on the way to study hall, or you just here for the coffee?” Jason gestures to the Keurig machine on the counter. “Hate to break it to you, but that stuff’s not exactly quality joe.”

You blinked at him. “What? Um…I mean yeah, the coffee’s ass. But it is free, I guess.”

Jason tries to reign in his smile. He cards a hand through his blonde hair and taps his free hand on the table.

“Uh, are you ditching class or something?” he asks. “If it’s history, I get it. Snooze fest.”

He makes a flatlining motion with his hand. Your brows knit together in confusion…but then you brighten.

“Oh, I’m not a student,” you laugh. “But good on you for trying to lay down the law, Coach Teague.”

Now it’s Jason’s turn to be confused. “How did you know—”

You point with your red pen, over to the yellow patch emblazoned on his red polo that says: Crows Football and Assistant Coach.

“Pretty sure you’re the one the cheerleaders are calling Assistant Hottie,” you say. Your gaze is wry and a hint playful.

He lets himself smile, albeit with some embarrassment. He points at you.

“And you’re…”

“Part-time teacher’s aid,” you reply. Your hands make a frame around the stack of papers in front of you, that Jason now realizes you’re grading.

Great. His face warms a bit.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, and points to the coffee maker. “Let me just mind my business.”

He doesn’t know it, but you subtly watch him with a small smile while he goes about said business. The Keurig eventually spits out more roasted hazelnut into his Styrofoam cup.

With his prize in hand, he means to leave you in peace to head for his office, but your voice stops him.

“You can sit if you want. I need a break anyway.”

Jason can admit, at least to himself, that he’s curious. (About you.) He goes over to the table and sits down across from you. His eyes unconsciously dart over the splayed contents of your bag, and you don’t miss it.

“Sorry,” you say, as you try to reign in the mess and corral things back into your bag. “I’m kind of an organized chaos kind of girl.”

“No worries. I dabble in that philosophy myself,” he says with a grin. “I’m Jason, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, giving him your name in return.

You like his smile. His long fingers are wrapped around the steaming cup. Meanwhile, the afternoon sun is pouring in from the windows behind him. It shines golden on his hair and broad shoulders, and makes his green eyes look warm.

Those eyes glance down and focus on a familiar badge sticking out of your bag. His brows furrow.

“No way. You go to Kansas A&M?” he asks. “So do I.”

You blink at him. “What, you’re still in college?”

He laughs and leans back in his chair, blowing out a breath.

“Okay, wow! A bit rude," he says. "Just how old do you think I am?”

You bite your lip in embarrassment.

“Second thought, don’t answer that,” he quips.

“I’m sorry,” you say, through a bit of laughter. “I guess we’re both reading each other wrong today.”

Jason shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“No, no. It’s fine,” he says airily. “Lest I be any more presumptuous, can I ask what year you’re in? Major?”

You concede with a nod, but you’re still smiling too hard.

“Secondary Education. Junior year,” you say. Jason’s brows raise with his grin still in place.

“Okay, a future teacher on our hands.” He leans forward. “As it turns out, I’m actually a sophomore.”

A year below you. You bury your reddened face in your hands, though a giggle still bubbles up.

He doesn’t let you stew in your misery for long though.

“Eh, it’s okay. Don’t feel too bad,” he says. You hear the smile in his voice, and you peek out at him from between your fingers. “I’m technically a year behind. Transferred from another school so I could take this job.”

Once again, your eyes widen as your hands fall away from your face.

“Oh, yeah? I assume you play football, but I’ve never seen you on the team…”

Jason’s smile turns playfully cocky.

“I don’t play anymore, but I’ll have you know, I was on track for the NFL.”

Yeah, for about a minute, comes a dull reminder in his brain.

You rest your chin in your hand as you meet his smile. “Okay. You definitely have the face of a guy who almost went pro.”

Your voice lowers at the end there, impersonating every “dude bro” you’ve ever met who thought he could throw a ball across a field.

“I’m serious.” Jason laughs, but then his eyes dim a bit. “I played for Metropolis U. Tore my rotator cuff, and uh…that’s it. Scrubbed. Had to start over.”

You dim along with him. “That sucks ass. I’m sorry.”

He snorts, almost spilling his coffee. “You’ve certainly got a way with words.”

“But you feel better for me calling you old, don’t you?” Your pen taps on your lip, and his eyes are drawn to the gesture.

He also notices your eyes, the shape of your face, the shade of your hair, the black Fleetwood Mac shirt (with a ripped V hinting at cleavage). It doesn’t exactly scream T.A., but you’re pretty.

Beautiful, really.

He tries not to notice that too much.

“Maybe a little,” he allows. He smiles behind a sip of his drink. It’s getting cold, as he forgets to actually drink it.

“My parents sent me to college to be a lawyer,” you confess. It perks his interest with raised brows. “Like my mom, and my uncle, and his father before him, and so on.”

Jason’s smile is back. You consider that a small triumph.

“I sat in one class. Intro to Business Law.” You shudder at the memory. “Jason, I wanted to bludgeon myself with the textbook. And it wouldn’t have taken long. That thing was the size of a Dostoyevsky novel.”

Jason laughs, even though he doesn’t know who Dostoyevsky is. It does unearth a distant memory of his 12th grade English class (he barely passed that one).

“So, I decided to disappoint them,” you say ruefully.

That, he understands all too well. He raises a finger at you. “Hey, a teacher’s respectable. But I happen to be an expert at disappointed parents, so you’re in good company.”

You smile, small but genuine. Jason counts that as a win.

“What’s your major now?” you ask.

“Sports medicine,” he replies, but you both hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

Your head tilts, and your eyes soften. Not with pity, he thinks. Maybe with understanding.

“You could find something else you’re actually passionate about,” you say.

Jason bites the inside of his lip, sets his cup back on the table.

“Sure,” he says.

His lackluster answer is telling, and he can’t even think of a joke to inject into this moment to lighten the mood. (He even disappoints himself there.)

“Look, I get it,” you say at last. “You probably ate, slept, breathed that game. Like that’s what you were put on this earth to do. And I know you must’ve been good. Because the fact that this school hired you while you’re still in college is amazing.”

He meets your gaze steadily. 

Your smile brightens. “But I’m sure football’s not all there is to you.” 

That touches him. Warms him even, though he’s reluctant to let it. 

“We just met, and you’re already sure about that?” he remarks. 

You shrug, gesturing at his cup. “Well, I’m sure that you probably have crappy taste in coffee. I’m broke as hell, and even I don’t drink from a Keurig.” 

Jason laughs. If you only knew that he’d spent his summer in Paris, sampling some of the best restaurants and cafés in the world without even looking at the bill…until his dad cut him off. Needless to say, he’s had to refine his tastes.

“What kind of teacher do you want to be?” he asks, instead of getting to all that.

Your brow arches. “You mean what subject?”

“Yeah. What, like physics or something?”

“Ew. God, no!” 

“What’s wrong with physics?”

“Too much math. I’m shit at that shit,” you reply. 

“Okay. No to the sciences.” He laughs and rubs his chin, squinting at you. “Let me see if I can guess.”

You gesture widely. Go ahead.

“Not economics, I’m thinking. Too close to business,” he teases.

“Business law,” you correct. “But you’re actually right about that.”

“Hmm, history?”

“It's interesting, but it’s also rigged,” you say. “Only the victors in society get to dictate what gets remembered. Just look at Columbus Day. What a sham that is.”

Jason allows that with a nod and a smile. “All right, what then? Algebra? Geometry?”

“That’s math, remember?” you reply, with furrowed brows. “Besides, I don’t like mixing letters and numbers. It’s not sanitary.” 

He chortles at that. You’re a little ridiculous, but he kind of likes that.

“Okay, how about English?” he says.

Your gaze flicks up to his. A small, growing smile. 

“What makes you say that?” you ask. 

“Process of elimination?” he says. His smile curves. He saw your little reaction. “But I don’t know. I get the feeling you’re a hell of a lot smarter than me. The way you’re talking, all quick as a whip… Like I said, you’ve got a way with words.”

You laugh a little. “Oh, do I?” 

Jason’s brows raise expectantly as he leans back in his seat again.

Well, then? that move says. “Am I right?”

Your head tilts, and you answer the unspoken challenge in his eyes. You raise a finger and pull out one of your notebooks and you take up your red pen. You tap the top of it on your lip, in what seems to be your habit, and you begin to write on a clean piece of paper.

Your hand moves with purpose on each word. Jason watches you in curiosity. Though when you realize he’s staring hard at your paper, your free hand forms a wall against his probing eyes.

“No cheating,” you reproach.

He scoffs, but he waits for you to finish.

Finally, you tear off the piece of notebook paper, fold it up neatly, and you slide it over to him.

“What, are we passing notes now?” Jason can’t help but joke, even as he opens the little gift. “I thought we weren’t in class, Professor.”

You shake your head. “Just read it.”

He starts to, and his smile grows. He glances back up at you. “You wrote me a poem?”

“Just a little haiku.” You gesture at him to keep reading while you start to pack up your things. The alarm bell just tolled for the end of class, and you have another job to get to.

Jason’s eyes lower back down to the looping scrawl of your handwriting. His smile deepens into a smirk.

Assistant Hottie

You flatter me, see through me

Smarter than he thinks.

He stares at your words for a while. He rereads the last line a few times.

By the time he looks back up, your bag is packed and you’re standing, ready to go. You smile at him.

“See you on campus,” you say. “I also work at the Writing Center, if you ever need a spruce up on your essays.”

“Can I get you to rewrite my history paper?” he teases.

“Make an appointment,” you counter, still with that smile. “And we’ll see.”

You leave the faculty lounge, and Jason feels a suspicious jolt in his heart.

Something he immediately feels guilty about. 

Because the real reason he came back to Kansas is to continue his summer fling with Lana Lang, a senior at Smallville High. 

Well, to him, it’s not a fling. He used to think it was as close to love as he’s ever been. Recently though, he’s been getting the sense that she’s still hung up on her not quite ex, Clark Kent.

That’s not even the most complicated part.

She’s 18, and Jason’s barely 20, but their relationship could still one day be the reason he loses his job…

And maybe, any chance he might have of being friends with someone like you.

AN: Lol no shade to my sciences, history, and math people! Just creating a character. Let me know what you think! 😉

And if you liked this...

Read the Sequel!

Check out "Miss Professor" to continue reading. ❤️

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[pamukkalemakina20]

Types of Coffee and Nuts Roasting Machines: A Guide to Choosing the Right Equipment

Types of Coffee and Nuts Roasting Machines: A Guide to Choosing the Right Equipment

Roasting machines play a crucial role in enhancing the flavors of both coffee and nuts. Whether you're a small business or a large-scale producer, understanding the different types of roasting machines can help you make an informed decision. Here, we will explore the main types of coffee and nuts roasting machines available on the market.

Types of Coffee Roasting Machines

Drum Roasters

Drum roasters are the most traditional and widely used machines for coffee roasting. They feature a rotating drum that evenly distributes heat, ensuring a consistent roast. These machines are ideal for large-scale production and offer flexibility in controlling roast levels. They are known for producing rich, fullbodied coffee.

Air Roasters

Air roasters use hot air to roast the coffee beans, allowing them to float freely as they roast. These machines are more energy-efficient and provide a faster roasting process. Air roasters are often preferred by smaller operations looking for precision and a light roast profile.

Hybrid Roasters

Hybrid roasters combine both drum and air roasting technology. These machines are designed to provide the best of both worlds—greater consistency and speed. They are versatile, allowing roasters to experiment with different styles of roasting.

Types of Nuts Roasting Machines

Drum Roasters for Nuts

Similar to coffee drum roasters, these machines have a rotating drum that evenly heats the nuts. They are commonly used for large batches of nuts and provide a consistent roast with minimal risk of burning. These machines are ideal for almonds, peanuts, cashews, and other common nuts.

Continuous Nut Roasters

Continuous nut roasters are designed for high-volume production. They use a conveyor belt system that moves nuts through a heating chamber, allowing for continuous roasting. These machines ensure uniform roasting and are suitable for large-scale nut roasting operations.

Rotary Nut Roasters

Rotary nut roasters use a rotating drum to ensure that the nuts are roasted evenly. They are especially effective for products that require careful control over temperature and roasting time. These machines are commonly used for smaller batch productions of premium roasted nuts.

Conclusion

Choosing the right roasting machine depends on factors like the product, batch size, and desired flavor profile. Coffee roasters include drum, air, convection, and hybrid models, each offering unique roasting experiences. For nuts, options like drum, continuous, hot air, and rotary roasters cater to different production needs. 

Selecting the right machine ensures consistency, quality, and customer satisfaction. For more information or to find the ideal roasting solution for your business, contact Pamukkale Makina, a trusted provider of high-quality roasting equipment.

[toadettely]

Please Be Rude.

The bell above the door of The King's Roast jingled, a sound I usually welcomed. It meant business, tips, and a momentary distraction from the monotony of frothing milk and wiping counters. But today, the sound sent a jolt of nervous energy through me. He was here.

Nick sauntered in, all tan skin and confident swagger, his brown hair falling perfectly across his forehead. He caught my eye and flashed a smile that could melt glaciers. My own cheeks flushed, a stark contrast to the pink tips I’d convinced Brent to help me dye last week.

"Hey, Vernias," he drawled, his voice a smooth melody that made my stomach flip. "The usual?"

“Uh, yeah,” I stammered, already reaching for a tall glass. "Your Peppermint Caramel, extra sweet caramel drizzle. Coming right up.” Internally, I groaned. Smooth, Vernias, real smooth.

Brent, ever the stoic observer, gave me a knowing glance as he pushed past me, heading for the back. "I'll start on the lunch rush prep," he muttered, a slight smirk playing on his lips before he disappeared.

Nick leaned against the counter, watching me as I worked. His gaze was warm, intense, and utterly disarming. It felt like he was seeing right through me, knowing things I hadn't even admitted to myself.

"So," he started, breaking the silence, "how's the pink hair treating you? Getting lots of attention?"

I concentrated on meticulously layering the caramel, trying to ignore the heat rising in my face. "It's fine," I mumbled. "Mostly just Brent making fun of me."

He chuckled, a rich, genuine sound. "I think it suits you. It's… cute."

Cute. That word, coming from him, was both a compliment and a gentle jab. I wanted something more than cute. I wanted him to see the mess of emotions bubbling beneath the surface, the longing that gnawed at me every time he was around.

Handing him the drink, I couldn't resist a small, hopeful look. "Thanks, Nick. What are you up to today?"

He took a long sip, his eyes never leaving mine. "Just running errands, mostly. But I figured I'd start my day with the best coffee in town." He paused, his voice dropping a notch. "And the best company."

My heart pounded. This was it, right? He was flirting. He had to be. But then again, maybe he was just being… Nick. Sweet, flamboyant, friendly to everyone.

A wave of frustration washed over me. I was tired of the guessing games. I wanted him to be honest, to be real, even if it meant being… well, a little rude.

"You know," I blurted out, before I could stop myself, "sometimes I wish you wouldn't be so nice."

He blinked, surprised. "Hm? What do you mean?"

I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “I mean,” I said, suddenly feeling bolder than I thought possible, “stop being so…considerate. Stop making me wonder if there’s something more. If there isn’t, just… be honest. Be a little rude. Tell me I’m reading things wrong.”

The cafe was quiet for a beat, the only sound the hum of the espresso machine. Nick stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow smile spread across his face.

"Vernias," he said softly, his voice laced with something I couldn't quite decipher, "maybe you're right. Maybe I have been too nice."

He reached out and gently brushed a stray curl from my forehead, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

"Maybe," he whispered, his eyes locking with mine, "it's time I showed you another side of me."

The bell above the door jingled again, but this time, I barely registered it. All I could focus on was Nick, his intense gaze, and the thrilling, terrifying possibility that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way. And maybe, he was about to be a little rude. Maybe, that was exactly what I needed.

I don't remember why I decided to make it first person, but it just felt better to do. Im guessing? And this is just an interpretation by myself and a few others people on what the song means so it's a mash of opinions in one!

¡👑

I could yap about this song all day, feel free to tell me about your interpretation of this song cause this song owns my heart and soul atm

I will yap about your Story and link it here because i am omw to my family rn but i have to give my thoughts as always ooohhh my god

This was so unexpected, I posted the colored lyrics on a whim, I did not see it coming to get gifted by you as always lmao. Truly made my day seriously 💛👑

[royalinkblot]

Wings of Home – Chapter Six: Afterburner Hearts

Maverick stood at the edge of the backyard, watching the twins run figure-eights around the half-built party stage, drone parts and streamers already scattered like confetti. Tom handed him a coffee and leaned on the railing beside him.

“Thinking about the party?” Tom asked.

Maverick took a sip and smiled. “Thinking about the day they were born.”

Tom groaned softly. “That day.”

Six years earlier. July 29.

It was supposed to be a peaceful day.

Hollywood and Wolfman had flown in that morning from D.C., both now admirals, full of stories and opinions. Sundown and Chipper were racing drones on the beach. Slider and his wife Brooke had arrived in full senator-and-surgeon glamour, only to be immediately dragged into an argument about beach volleyball.

Goose and Carole brought fresh-baked pies from Carole’s café bistro, which had somehow exploded in popularity since she introduced “Danger Scones” and “Rooster Roast” on the menu.

Viper, now long retired, sat on the porch with Tom, sipping iced tea and watching the chaos unfold.

“This isn’t a reunion,” Tom had murmured. “This is a controlled crash.”

Then Maverick appeared in the doorway, hand pressed to his belly, face pale. “Uh, guys... my water just broke.”

Silence.

Utter silence.

Followed by:

“GOOSE, GET THE TRUCK!”

“WHERE’S THE BAG?!”

“I THOUGHT ICE HAD THE BAG!”

“I HAVE ONE JOB, WOLF—WHY WOULD I HAVE THE BAG?!”

“WHERE THE HELL IS COUGAR?!”

“MERLIN’S IN THE SHOWER!”

Within seconds, Hollywood had mapped the fastest route to the hospital, Goose had taken charge like a field commander, Carole was handing out protein bars, and Viper calmly folded his chair, patted Tom on the shoulder, and said, “Well, this is happening.”

Tom had driven like a madman. Maverick, in the passenger seat, gritted through contractions, clutching his hand.

“Remind me,” Maverick gasped between breaths, “why I let you knock me up?”

“Because we’re in love and you’re an adrenaline addict,” Tom answered through clenched teeth.

They made it to the hospital just as Cougar and Merlin pulled up, still half-dressed and wide-eyed.

Maverick was whisked into a room. The twins weren’t waiting.

A nurse came out minutes later. “We have to do an emergency C-section. Now.”

Tom’s heart nearly stopped.

Everything blurred. Consent forms. Scrubs. Goose yelling at a vending machine. Brooke calming him down. Carole praying quietly in the corner. Viper silently standing beside Tom, a hand on his back.

And then—

Two cries.

Not one.

Two.

First Nikola, fierce from the moment she emerged. Then Ace, blinking up at the world with an expression of mild curiosity, like he was already calculating wind resistance.

Maverick, half-conscious, looked up and whispered, “We did it.”

Tom kissed his forehead, tears falling freely. “You did it.”

Now, six years later, Maverick watched the two lives they’d brought into the world tackle each other in the sand, laughing uncontrollably, both wearing tiny flight jackets with call signs they chose themselves: Icestorm for Nikola. Blaze for Ace.

“They’ve always been close,” Maverick said quietly. “Even in the NICU, they used to reach for each other.”

Tom nodded. “They learned sign language at seven months.”

“They started decoding TV remote commands at eight.”

“They figured out your old F-14 flight manual before they were two.”

“They love fighter jets more than we do,” Maverick added.

Nikola ran up then, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

“Dads!” she shouted. “We designed a new jet! It has split-thrust vectoring and negative-drag adaptive wings! We call it Phoenix!”

Ace was right behind her. “It can hit Mach 12.3—hypothetically. We just need a plasma engine. Can we build one for our birthday?”

Tom blinked. “We’ll talk about it after dinner.”

They darted away again, completely in sync, like two sides of the same storm—brilliant, wild, and utterly inseparable.

Maverick leaned against Tom. “They’re best friends. Soulmates, even.”

“Just like their parents,” Tom said.

And with that, the sun began to dip behind the ocean, casting golden light over a family born of chaos, love, and sky-high dreams.

Chapter one Chapter two Chapter three Chapter four Chapter five Chapter seven

[zerofuckingwaste]

Easy zero waste tip no. 6: Find out what caffeinated beverage you actually want/need, then learn how to make it; aka "The Starbucks Lie"

Tl;Dr: You may be misinformed about how coffee actually works, leading you to purchase beverages that you may not actually like, that may not serve the purpose you want them to serve, and you can save money (and the environment!) by learning to make something you'll actually like at home.

Last week, I went to Starbucks to get a pumpkin chai latte, because I'm not perfect and needed to fulfill a craving on a bad day- but at least I used a reusable cup. Anyhow, while I was there, I witnessed the following conversation, not for the first time, nor the last, which I'm sure is commonplace:

Barista: What can I get you?

Customer: Do you have a dark roast? I like my coffee dark.

B: We just have a medium roast ready, but I can do a dark roast pourover.

C: Nah, that's not going to be enough caffeine for me, and I need drip coffee, not anything fancy. I'll have an Americano, then- espresso beans should be high enough in caffeine!

Now, if this seems like a reasonable exchange, that's ok- you're likely not a trained barista, and even if you are, there's a chance your training was at least a little bit wrong. Let's walk through it point by point, to explain why this exchange made me want to tear my hair out of my head.

"I like my coffee dark!" Most likely, this is false- studies have shown that people are most likely to say they want dark coffee, when they actually most enjoy a lighter or medium roast. Darker roasts are bitter, partially due to having more tannins- which is why they can cause more side effects, like headaches and digestive issues.

"Not enough caffeine" In fact, the longer (darker) you roast coffee, the more caffeine it loses. If you want a highly caffeinated beverage, you should opt for the lightest roast available.

"I need drip coffee, not anything fancy (pourover)" Pourover is essentially a method of making drip coffee one cup at a time. No machine or anything, it's the least fancy coffee option possible.

"Espresso beans should have high enough caffeine" The beans used for espresso are the same as the beans used for the drip coffee- they're just ground more finely before going through the machine.

"An Americano [...] should have enough caffeine" An Americano is a double shot with hot water, about 160 mg of caffeine if you're getting a 'grande'. A drip coffee that same size is over 300 mg.

This man claimed to love coffee, but didn't understand anything about it, leading him to pay $4.39 for 160 mg of caffeine instead of $3.28 for almost double that- keeping in mind that number could easily have been doubled again had he opted for the lighter roast. So, let's fix that.

1. Light or Dark Roast?

Have you ever wondered why Starbucks has a medium roast, the Pike Place, as their go to roast all the time? It's because it's the most middle of the road, bland option, completely inoffensive- not very good, but also, not too bad. It's a blend from a bunch of places, so there's no overwhelming flavor besides coffee with a slight hint of being burned. That burn taste everyone complains about, btw, is a result of the roast being too dark for them, hello tannins!

A lot of things happen to coffee as you roast it. Let's go through each point one by one:

The color changes. The darker the roast, the darker the roast- literally. This is best gauged with ground coffee, where you can see the average of the whole bean, not just the outer shell.

The mass decreases due to a loss of moisture. However, the bean actually expands in volume due to the strength of the cell walls. In essence, the density decreases.

Oils seep out from inside of the beans, coating them, and protecting volatile chemical compounds that give them flavor.

The caffeine content is lessened the longer you roast.

With high heat, the Maillard reaction occurs. While this reaction is responsible for the lovely color and the viscous, dark flavor notes, it's also responsible for breaking down the citric and tartaric acid, which causes the sweet and fruity flavors to dissipate. It also breaks down chlorogenic acid, creating caffeic acid and quinic acid, aka bitter, bitter tastes.

High heat also causes caramelization of sugars- but at a certain point, those sugars start to burn away.

Taking all this into consideration, we can begin to figure out what kinds of coffee you'll actually like. One quick note: always get single origin coffees. Each region has its own flavors, and if you're only getting coffee from one spot in your cup, then those notes will be amplified for your enjoyment.

A dark roast will have less caffeine, a stronger coffee bitterness, and very simple, up front flavors: chocolate, nuts, smoke, wood, etc. (My favorite tastes like dark chocolate with a hint of hickory)

A light roast will have more caffeine, a lesser amount of bitterness, and very complex, more nuanced flavors: citrus, caramels, fruits, florals, etc. (My favorite tastes like blueberries and white chocolate, with notes of almonds)

No two coffees are alike. My recommendation is that you purchase a bag of whole beans from your favorite local cafe or roaster based on your caffeine needs, and try out different beans until you find one- or two, or five, or a dozen- that you really love.

One quick note- a much, much greater flavor difference can be found in aerobic v. anaerobic roasted beans. I recommend reading into this process on your own, it's fascinating- both of my favorite coffees are anaerobic roasts, as it happens.

2. How should I make my coffee?

I'm a big fan of the affogato. I'm a dessert for breakfast kind of gal, so it makes sense; a hefty double shot over a scoop of ice cream. Absolutely divine; I pretty much only do espresso for myself, although my partner greatly prefers French press.

The overall rule for caffeine in your coffee is that the finer the grind, the more caffeine you're going to get out of the bean. That being said, that doesn't mean the final product will actually have more caffeine than another method, as different ways of making coffee require different amounts of coffee grounds. Keep the ratio of grounds to water in mind for this reason. However, you must remember that the perceived strength of the beverage- the concentration of flavors- is not necessarily correlated to the amount of caffeine. I'll now go over a few methods of making coffee which can be 100% zero waste (assuming you compost those coffee grounds!).

Cold Brew- You either let grounds freely float in water, or let them steep inside of a little filter bag. Let it rest overnight, up to 48 hours. If you like your coffee cold, and not a lot of effort, this might be your best bet.

Pourover- You put grounds into a little filter over either your cup or a pitcher. Pour water over the filter and let it drip down. If you like having a calming morning ritual, this might be for you. Essentially the same as drip coffee, except you don't have to care about a machine.

French press- You put grounds in the bottom of the press, then fill with hot water, and let it steep for a few minutes, then press the grounds down. If you don't mind a little work every morning, waiting a few minutes (when you could prep your breakfast, perhaps) then give this a go.

Moka pot- You pour water into the base, then put grounds into the basket, then screw on the top. Place on the stovetop, and remove as soon as the coffee begins to come out of the spout within. If you like a strong cup but don't want to invest in espresso, this is a great option. The pressure is too low for it to be true espresso, but it's very good.

Manual espresso- This is a bit more complex. It will be the same as automatic espresso, except there's no chance of the machine failing for any electronic reason. You fill a little basket with grounds, then tamp them down. Water is brought to temperature, then pressed through the espresso at a relatively high psi. If you want espresso, this is the way. You can get an entry level (Flair makes several that are fantastic) or you can get something high end with a built in boiler (I have a La Pavoni with an attached steam wand, great purchase).

Automatic espresso- Essentially the same as manual, but the machine does the pressing for you. If you love espresso but don't want to do a lot of work for it, this is a great investment! If you can buy used, do- just make sure the brand is one that offers replacement parts.

There are plenty of other options, but these are a good place to get started, when figuring out what works for you.

3. Why do I want my coffee?

Are you looking for a caffeine boost to get through a rough workday? Do you want something sweet to accompany your breakfast? Are you just bored?

Figure out why you want your coffee, then tailor your morning experience to your needs. If you need a caffeine boost for a rough workday, maybe don't do anything time consuming- prepare a middle of the road medium roast cold brew for the week on Sunday, and go ahead and grab a glass in your hurry out the door each morning. If you want something sweet with breakfast, get a light roast and a French press, and make it part of the routine for the meal. If you're bored, do pourover with a dark roast into a funky mug, or learn to steam milk to make latte art.

Really, coffee is something lovely, that you should enjoy, without mindlessly spending money on something that's not even good. As a bonus, you can support local businesses (coffee roasters and cafes), develop a new skill, and better the environment.

[infiniteinquiries]

♡ Coffee shop au in which ellie is a barista and knows you like her so she keeps making you increasingly terrible drinks to see how far she can push you ♡

pt. 4

pt. 1 // pt. 2 // pt. 3

Ellie froze. She had been caught red-handed. A beat passed before she brushed off your confronting remark. She subconsciously raised her chin, trying her damndest to look unfazed.

"Well, I had to make sure a pretty girl like you wasn't coming back for the flavor profile..." she replied smugly, looking you up and down in the least subtle manner.

She watched as your cheeks burned red. Now you were the one standing there dumbfounded. Ellie wasn't sure why you were surprised, she knew what game you'd been playing. What she hadn't been expecting was your next quip.

"Oh yeah? You caught me. Now how are you gonna pay me back for passing your tests?"

Ellie blinked at you in honest awe of your boldness. She tried her best to control the conversation again.

"Hm. That's fair. How about I give you my number and the best Americano in town and we call it even? The first one is hard to come by, ya know." Ellie smirked wildly, quite satisfied with herself.

She watched your eyes widen in disbelief. Few girls had gotten this far, usually her attitude ran them off by now. Soon after, her eyes trailed your hand as it came up to your chin, tapping it in dramatized thought. You even tapped your foot for ironic effect, Ellie noted.

"Hmmm, deal." You nodded, firm in your agreement. Ellie shook her head and giggled, a genuine girlish laugh escaping her lips. You were something else.

"Come 'ere," she said in a warm smiling tone, "get it tattooed or something, can't have you losing it." She scribbled her number on the back of your hand, the last number slightly smearing in blue ink.

Ellie felt her heart flutter at the stupidly wide grin on your face. It surprised her. Was she really simping this hard right now?

"So uh...are you gonna make that Americano then?" You snorted, averting her gaze and rolling your eyes trying not to laugh. This girl was such a fuckboy it was ridiculous.

"Sure thing, sweetheart. I promise you it'll be the best you've ever had." Ellie replied suggestively. You knew she wasn't just talking about the dark roast.

"We'll see about that," you looked up over your browbone at her like it was a challenge.

Ellie purposely ignored you, wanting to leave you wanting more. She couldn't enable you too much, that was no fun.

She felt your eyes watching her every move as she once again worked the espresso machine with ease. Muscular arms darting between stations, strong shoulders lifting each implement and handle like it was second nature (it was).

She took real joy in her physique, as were you apparently, she mused when she caught you staring.

"I hope you like this as much as you like what you see." Ellie chuckled boyishly.

Here you were again, cheeks flushing. She was hoping to catch you off guard.

Instead of setting the drink on the counter this time, she made sure to slowly pass it directly into your hands, taking just a beat too long to finish the transfer. You cupped the warm beverage between your palms.

You made sure to make eye contact with Ellie as you took your first error-free sip from the roastery. Ellie watched you with intensity, genuinely hoping that she'd blow you away. This time, she was trying to impress you.

The taste of warm cinnamon and rich espresso flooded your senses in a way you could hardly describe. Ellie was right, this was the best damn cup of coffee you'd ever had. It kind of made you angry, in a way.

As you removed the cup from your lips, you paused, blinking slowly.

"Ellie, are you fucking kidding me? I missed out on this for three weeks?" You're tone was dripping with frustration.

She was hoping you would gloss over that now that you had something genuinely good in your hand, but no such luck.

"Well, I suppose your pretty face will be back then?" She chuckled, looking away.

"Ellie, how could I stay away?"

--

Tags: @vgnoxi @bunkisses4u @lovergirlism @radioheadfan699

[leejenowrld]

"Your taste might need help" - Chenle

As a follow-up to housewarming gifts, the longtime besties turned roommates make a day out of shopping for something that screams them, but also elevates their space like Chenle lovingly, jokingly intended. The store: massive. The inventory: extensive. The possibilities: endless.

What are some of the items they consider (both seriously and just for laughs)?

What do they actually bring home?

And most importantly, is Chenle impressed?

mark and nabi (fucking sick of calling her mark’s best friend, i’ve given her a name and i’m gonna announce it in a post soon) would absolutely make a day out of this, turning what should be a straightforward shopping trip into an adventure filled with chaos, inside jokes, and way too many unnecessary items in their cart. the store they choose is massive, the kind of place that sells everything from sleek, modern furniture to absurd novelty items, and it takes approximately five minutes before they get completely sidetracked.

things they seriously consider:

a sleek, oversized coffee table that doubles as storage, with clean lines that elevate the room but also hide their clutter.

an industrial-style floor lamp with exposed bulbs, something that screams “grown-up apartment” but is also way cooler than it needs to be.

an expensive mirror that leans against the wall, the kind that makes every outfit look incredible.

a record player that comes with built-in speakers, so they can pretend they’re more cultured than they actually are while blasting whatever spotify playlist fits the mood.

a set of matching barstools that actually fit the kitchen island, because functionality matters… sometimes.

things they consider just for laughs:

a life-size cardboard cutout of stephen curry (it caught mark and chenle’s eyes) which they both find hilarious but also weirdly tempting.

a neon sign that says something completely ridiculous like “no thoughts, just vibes” or “chaos HQ.”

a disco ball. no explanation needed.

one of those giant bean bags that’s big enough to replace the couch. they joke about how it could double as a bed for guests, but neither of them wants to be the adult who owns a bean bag.

a vintage popcorn machine that would never get used but looks amazing for aesthetics.

what they actually bring home:

after way too much deliberation, they settle on a statement piece that’s both functional and reflective of their dynamic—a bold, abstract rug that ties the whole living room together but still feels like it belongs in their space. they also grab the industrial floor lamp and a ridiculously comfortable throw blanket they found on sale. as a final touch, they impulsively buy a small neon sign that says “chaotic good,” which ends up being their favorite purchase of the day.

chenle’s reaction:

chenle, of course, has to roast them first. he points out the impracticality of the neon sign and sarcastically asks if they’re trying to be influencers. but deep down, he’s impressed. the rug is undeniably cool, the lamp elevates the space in a way he didn’t think they were capable of, and the whole apartment feels more put-together than he expected. by the end of the visit, he begrudgingly admits they have taste—but not without slipping in a joke about how the bean bag would’ve been the better choice.

[pretchatta]

butterflies & hurricanes

kanera domestic fluff for GliblyCastGeas as part of the @kanera-discord-events! featuring breadwinner Hera and SAHD Kanan

also on AO3 ->

---

Monday mornings at the Syndulla house were often hectic. 

Kanan navigated them with the help of a routine. He would calmly and methodically work through each step while his family tore through the house like person-sized tornadoes around him, and once they were all done, he would clean up the chaos they left behind.

It had admittedly become a lot easier after first Sabine and then Ezra had moved out, but between their new arrival and Hera’s latest promotion, sometimes the house still felt just as full as it used to.

The first step in his current routine was waking his two-year-old son and carrying him down to the kitchen for his breakfast. Jacen was a heavy sleeper, something Kanan frequently found himself very thankful for, and in the mornings he generally didn’t fully wake up until he had finished eating. This made breakfast a fairly straightforward affair and Kanan could leave Jacen to his egg and soldiers while he prepared Hera’s lunch. 

This second step in his routine was his favourite. There was something about providing for his wife so she could excel at her job that filled him with a sense of pride and fulfilment. Keeping one ear listening to Jacen, he took the glass container from the fridge that contained the roasted sweet potato and feta salad he’d made for his wife the previous night, and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. He set to chopping it into slices before laying them in a plastic container, squeezing a little lemon juice over them (to prevent browning) and then sealing them in with the lid. 

His eyes drifted to the cupboard where they kept the more sugary snacks. Hera had had a sweet tooth since before he’d met her, but had recently decided she wanted to stick more firmly to the diet that would help her lose the last of her pregnancy weight. She knew Kanan thought she was beautiful no matter her size, and he knew that for her it was less about feeling attractive and more about feeling herself, so it wasn’t a topic they disagreed about. She wanted her body back after the unplanned pregnancy had changed it, and so he would support her in that. He’d save the sweet treats for a special occasion.

The final item in her to-go bag would be what Hera would consider the most important: coffee. The offices at the New Republic government buildings all had kitchens equipped with coffee machines, but Kanan had listened to his wife complaining the night before about how her morning today would be back-to-back meetings from the minute she walked through the front door, which meant she wouldn’t have time to make herself a cup. It was in the best interests of everyone working in that building today that he ensured Hera was caffeinated.

He brewed up some of her favourite grounds and poured it into the thermos for her to sip in place of saying something she shouldn’t, like “this meeting could have been an email and I could have been making coffee right now”. She’d drink it straight from the thermos instead of using the little cup it came with, because “that’s not a cup, that’s a thimble, and by the time I’ve poured the 100 cups I’d need to get through the flask, it’ll have gone cold!”

But that just meant he could use the cup for his own purposes.

He took a post-it from the stack they kept next to the house phone and wrote a simple note of three words with the first pen he could find – a green sharpie. He poked it into the cup and screwed it onto the thermos, and then placed the thermos, glass salad container and plastic fruit container into Hera’s work bag along with her water bottle, which he refilled.

His timing was perfect; he set the bag on the counter just as Hera burst into the kitchen. “Tornado” really was an apt metaphor. She grabbed her bag, planted a kiss on his lips, and was already moving to the dining table as she called to him,

“Got to go, I love you, I’ll text you when I leave tonight.”

She reached Jacen and expertly dodged a balled fist clutching a yolk-drenched toast soldier, protecting her work uniform as she kissed the top of her son’s head – the part of him most likely to still be clean. She still wiped a toast crumb from the corner of her lipsticked mouth as she straightened.

“Be good for your daddy today, Jacen,” she told her son. “Bye bye!”

She swept from the room and the sound of the front door shutting a moment later announced that she’d left the house. All that remained was the lingering scent of her perfume, which made Kanan smile.

That was one tornado dealt with. He turned to his son.

“Okay, buddy, do you wanna tell me how you have egg yolk on your ear?”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blind Offer 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a leak causes you to evacuate your apartment, your landlord offers a vacant unit that’s too good to be true. (short!plus!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Lloyd Hansen, and August Walker

Note: Monday was like a punch in the face. This is one of my Corrupt-A-Wish requests but I won’t reveal which one right away because it’ll be part of the plot!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love turning intended one shots into series. Take care. 💖

It’s not often you manage to sleep in. It’s a true feat for you to wake up after nine on your days off and not lay wakeless and frustrated at six in the morning. Despite this, you feel less than rejuvenated. In fact, you’re exhausted as you sit up and rub your eyes with the heels of your hand.

Dizziness follows you from the bed as you stumble to the bathroom. After letting out the pressure in your bladder, you rinse your face with cold water in an attempt to chase away the dregs of fatigue. You grumble and leave your reflection in the dark.

You snatch up your phone and head downstairs. You flip through your notifs, including a message from your landlord. You’re not entirely surprised by the good night. He seems to struggle with his social filter and timing. Sending you sweet dreams after midnight isn’t exactly sauve.

Whatever. He’s a bit strange but he could’ve lied and charged you for the washer. He could’ve even made you pay for a hotel. As odd as this whole arrangement has become, your complaints can’t outweigh the trouble saved.

You set up the coffee machine to brew and turn to lean in the crook of the counter, enamoured with your phone. You know it’s bad to just sit there staring at a screen at first light but you’re slightly disoriented. You feel like you have to do something to keep from thinking too much.

The coffee is a bit strong. You choke it down as you bring up your inbox. Maybe you should check in about the apartment. Today would be perfect to get back to normal. You have a stretch of five days coming up and you would rather not be scrambling to pack up on a work night.

You bring up Steve’s chat and ignore his last text; ‘sweet dreams, sweetheart ✨’. That’s better left unacknowledged. 

‘Hey, wondering what it’s looking like at my apartment. When do you think it’ll be ready?’

You hit send and stare into the depth of your coffee. The taste isn’t what you’re used to. You like a lighter roast over the smoky dark flavour. You force it down for the much-needed dose of caffeine and rinse the cup. You pause and stare at the dish rack. It’s empty.

You set your glass inside and reach to open the cupboard above. All the dishes are neatly stacked. The plate you used last night set with the rest. The pans are away and the cutlery too. You swore you left them to dry.

You shake off the ripple of unease. Your phone buzzes and you look down at the incoming call. He can’t just text?

You answer it, clearing your throat before you croak out a hello.

“Hey, uh, sorry I haven’t updated you. Been pretty busy,” Steve jumps right in. You can hear activity on his end of the line, “it’s not looking like this will be done today.”

“Oh, really?” You sigh, “well, okay. Thanks for letting me know–”

“Rogers–” Someone calls from his end and he quickly shushes them.

“Yeah, it’s turning out to be a bigger issue than I thought but if you need anything at all, let me know.”

“Of course, thanks. Um, I’ll let you go. You sound pretty busy.”

“Just a lit–”

The line cuts off. You pull the phone away from your cheek and look at the screen. The timer is paused and the call moves to your history. You’re sure if there’s anything important, Steve will call you back.

You bring up the tab viewer and clear away all the windows. You open a new app and stare at the logo, waiting for it to load. It doesn’t. You close out and try again. Hmm. You pull down the menu and check the wifi; connected without internet. Really?

You notice the bars at the top of your phone are gone too, a circle with a line blink over them. No service either. What the hell? A tower might be out. You put your phone screen down and leave it in the kitchen. You’ll give it twenty and hope it’s back up once you’re dressed.

Upstairs, you dig out an outfit to lounge around in and start on your daily routine. Brush your teeth, cleanse, moisturise, the very basics that make you feel human. Usually, the process renews you but today, everything is a task. You feel and look drawn.

You pull on your lavender sweat and plain white tank. You go back downstairs and retrieve your phone. Still no signal. That means you have to entertain yourself. Or… maybe you can find a coffee shop with a functioning hotspot. You could use something sweet after the bitter dark roast.

You pull on your sneakers and slide your phone into your purse. You jingle the keys as you approach the door. You tend to use the doorcode, it’s just easier, but just in case the wifi is messing with the system. You flip the latch back then grab the handle and twist.

The door doesn’t budge. You try again, yanking harder. You use both hands, pulling on it until you’re out of breath. What the fuck? Are you locked in?

You go to the small box mounted beside the door and check the screen. Armed and secured. Okay? You punch in the code Steve sent you but the thing just beeps at you five times and shows ‘incorrect passcode’. You try again, making sure you punch it in slowly so you don’t get any numbers backwards. The same incessant beeping sounds.

“Ugh!” You cross your arms and step back. You can’t even call Steve to tell him.

You fish out your phone and raise it above you. You walk through each room, trying to find a signal. Nothing. You sniff and try to disconnect and reconnect to the wifi. It doesn’t work. You don’t even know where the router is to reset it.

Panic starts to crawl its way up your body. This is so strange. You’re trapped here, alone, isolated. On your day off, too.

You put your purse down and your phone and go to the window in the front room. Try to push it open but it won’t move. The clasp does nothing to free it and your distress begins to build. What is going on?

You lean forward and look outside, hoping you might chance on an elusive neighbour or a passerby. Nothing. The street is just as empty as usual. 

What do you do? Just sit and wait? You’re at a loss.

You stagger back and fall heavily onto the couch, holding your head in your hands. Something isn’t right, you can feel it, but your mind nips at your intuition. It’s nothing. These things happen. Bad luck comes in threes; broken washer, shitty encounters, and now, you’re cut off from the world. 

You’re through the worst, right?

🖤

You doze off in the tedium of your new wireless existence. You don’t realise until you come too, face down on the leather couch with an arm hanging down to the floor. You bend your elbow and push yourself up, a pang sparking across your lower back from the stiff cushions. You look around, searching for your bearings.

You lean forward and take your phone. It’s been almost two hours since the world shut you out. The service bar is still blinking and the wireless is still disconnected. Goddamn it!

You climb to your feet and shake your head, trying to free yourself from the cobwebs. You’re hungry. You should eat. It’ll give you something to do.

You take out the prepackaged salad in a plastic container. You should eat it before it starts to wilt. You pop the lid off and add the little packets of nuts and cranberries, then drizzle over the dressing. You stir around the leaves, coating them with the oily vinaigrette.

You eat slowly, staring at the fridge and the touchscreen set into it. Fancy fridge. Fancy everything in this place. You almost miss the simplicity of your rattling fridge and leaky washer.

You get about halfway through the salad and give up on the dry kale. Not enough dressing in the world can make that good. You close up the container and put it back in the fridge.

You trail back up the hall to the entryway. You grab the handle again, wrench as you pull on it with all your might. You plant your feet and grunt, fighting to pull it from the frame. You stop and flip the latch, thinking maybe you accidentally locked it. Nope, still stuck.

“It’s not going to open,” a voice echoes from the high ceilings.

You spin and press your back to the door, looking around frantically for the intruder. You don’t know that voice. There’s no one there. Oh god, are you going crazy?

“What the fuck is going on?” You ask aloud, cringing as you realise that is definitely insane. You’re talking to a house.

“I said, it won’t open,” the deep timbre comes again. You gulp.

“Wh- where are you? What– Who–” you sputter, confused at what’s going on. You push away from the door and spin, searching for a shadow or ghost. Whatever it is that’s possessed this place.

“I can see you but you can’t see me,” the narrator says.

You still and turn back to face the security box. Still armed and secured. You pivot slowly, searching the walls and the corners.

Even if you found the cameras, what would you do?”

You squeak and clap your hands together. Okay, this is fucked up. This has to be a nightmare. You close your eyes and bow your head, willing yourself to wake up.

“Rogers is right. You’re a nervous one.”

You pop your head up and stare at the ceiling, “what are you talking about? What is going on?”

The voice laughs. You shake your head as you sink your nails into the back of your hands, clenching them tight. Your heart pounds behind your ears, spinning your head.

“Steve? You know Steve?” You ask desperately.

“Doll, you can ask all the questions you want. You give answers, I don’t.”

You whimper, eyes wetting in horror. This can’t be real. It can’t be. Whatever this is, Steve will come and let you out. Whoever this creep is who hacked his system if just fucking with you.

“Shut up,” you snap, “you… you weirdo. What the fuck?”

“You got a filthy mouth,” he rebukes, “lady’s shouldn’t talk like that.”

You reel and stammer. You scoff and pull your hands apart, trying to steady yourself, “fuck you, dude. Men shouldn’t be doing whatever the fuck it is you’re doing. Spying on me, or whatever.”

There’s a click and silence. You wait for a response. Nothing. You spin again, searching. “Hello?”

Your voice reverberates around you. No answer. Just the still, stolid silence of the house.

A low whir underlines the quiet and you face the door again. The narrow windows along either side begin to disappear. You can’t believe your eyes. Black barriers descend over the glass and block out the sun.

You rush into the front room, finding the same thing on the wide bay window. You rush over but can’t stop it, recoiling before the barrier can crush you. Shit, shit, shit. 

“What is happening?” You holler as you face the open room.

Again, you’re left with your own question. You don’t get it. Is this a joke? Wait, what if this isn’t Steve’s place? You were always told not to trust a landlord…

🖤

You pace and pace until your legs give out. You're weak and wilted. Your mind as addled as your body. You don't get it!

You cry out, begging for an answer; what's happening? Who is this bodiless voice? What do they want from you?

Is this what it's like to snap? To enter psychosis? It can't be real yet you don't think you could machinate such a fantastical terror on your own.

You lay in a heap on the floor, waiting for whatever comes next. It's all you can do. Your fingers are bruised and scraped from clawing at the door and windows. Your eyes are swollen from the flow of tears that rises without permission only to recede to a pulsing anger that makes your skull throb.

You hear a jingle. Digital and bubbly. You pop up and reach for your phone. You keep it on vibrate but you never know. No change. No service.

You huff. What the fuck was that? You clasp your phone tight and wobble to your feet. You walk between the couch and the low coffee table, following the jingle as it sounds again.

You enter the kitchen and find the screen of the Amazon Echo flashing at you from the counter. Where it once displayed the time and weather, you see a blaring font. You get closer and lean in to read it.

'Go to your room. Put the dress on.'

You blink. Huh? What dress? You don't wear dresses. You shake your head and stand straight, looking up at the ceiling.

The device chimes again. You read the new message. 'Do it.'

You sigh. What the hell is this dystopian fever dream?

The screen clears, a new message; 'bad girl, your disobedience has been noted.'

Your chest knots. You don't like the sound of that. It's both frightening and enraging.

You tap the screen. Maybe you can access something through there. Maybe get the wifi working. It does the respond to your touch, it changes again.

'Turn around.'

You retract your hand and stand stalk straight. Eyes wide. You quiver as you slowly shift around. You shield yourself, expecting someone to be waiting for you.

You only find the small flatscreen mounted in the corner of the kitchen lit up. The TV screen plays the very scene you stand in. You get closer, lowering your arm as the figure on the screen does the same. The angle is high, you follow it up to the corner.

You take as step back and glance again at the smart screen on the counter. You jump as music erupts from it, a song you know, that you heard recently. 

'The world is a vampire Sent to drain Secret destroyers Hold you up to the flames And what do I get for my pain? Betrayed desires And a piece of the game'

Another message blips up on the screen. You near, hugging yourself as you read it.

'Last chance.'

You shudder and nearly swallow your tongue. You should be defiant. Be strong and stand your ground. You're utterly terrified. Is it Steve? Did he do this?

You turn solemnly away, accepting defeat. You enter the front room and almost in a trance, traipse up the stairs and down the hall. You stop in the doorway of the bedroom. You gasp.

There's a dress on your bed. It wasn't there before. You've never seen it. The red checker pattern, the wrap cut. It's old fashioned in a way. 

The music wafts up louder from the first floor. You spin back to the empty hallway. Someone else was here… are they still there?