Another Finnish tradition in the more rural areas is to gather in a Kota Hut. I was obsessed with how perfect these would be back home in the rainy NW and I plan to build one someday as part of my dream cabin. The huts are a year round gathering place to cook on a wood fire and then eat, drink, and talk in the warm shelter. The various tiers of cast iron allowed for a stew to slow cook, coffee to brew, direct grilling, or indirect smoking. A wood fire cooking dream. We enjoyed this dish that included wild salmon, foraged local mushroom salad and homemade rye bread sitting on a caribou hide. Photographed for @airbnb
A storm, brewing with slow might and destructing with vicious convict. It sits in quicksand at the base of their bellies, a heavy weight of dread, meteoric to swallow up any other sensation that dares to dwell nearby. Yet they let it fester, allow it to torment from the inside out until, they too, are consumed by the tsunami that holds them just below the surface, become wedged into the fault lines of the earthquake where their bones obliterate.
It can begin with the smallest of incidences. A minuscule mistake of not bothering to wipe up the splash of spilled coffee on the breakfast bar, or eating with their mouth open at the volume of a mammoth chewing its food, even flicking toothpaste onto the mirror that was cleaned no less than a day ago. It escalates when texts honing important questions that require instant answers are left unseen for hours, if the laundry or the dishes are abandoned to pile up in grot by the scheduled leader of chores for that day, and most especially when date night plans are dismissed by one instead attending a gaming night with the guys, or the other deciding upon wine with the girls as a better method to relax after a long day.
“Sweetheart,” Yoongi will gradually seethe, blood rising high in his cheeks, about to be discovered in the fissures of his teeth once he tears at her throat like a lion on a gazelle with the accusations he is loosening the reigns on in order to unleash, “Darling– Y/N. You’re really beginning to test my fucking patience here.”
And just like that, all hell breaks loose. The fight is vicious and bloody, dripping in empty malice that only sparks in the sheer rage of the moment. They tear into iron skin that is always left unscathed because their nails are too tender to truly implement any permanent damage, not sharp enough to streak scars in their wake that they will inspect, avoid later in the day, the week, the month, with utter shame. Rage rushes in a flood between them and only once the water has reached the rooftop does it begin to drain out of the room, retreating beneath the doorways, tucking in a dewy residue within the cracked plaster of the walls while they both stand spent, gasping for fresh air after being submerged in the chaos for so long.
She, straightening her spine, will snatch a set of keys from coffee table, a coat that belongs to him from the hanger by the door. “Fuck this, I’m going for a drive,” she will announce while he trails behind her progression to leaving like a persistent ghost, catching her wrist right before she unlatches the locked front door.
“You can’t leave without letting me hug you first,” Yoongi huffs with a bitter taste remaining to lay thick on the back of his tongue, and she is pliant when he firmly tugs her against his torso, a nearly forgiving tangle of arms curling around waists and shoulders.
Yoongi kisses her, hard enough that it hurts just right. He can taste the apologies in their mouths already. “Be safe, okay? Go cool the fuck down.”
“Whatever, I love you,” is all that she responds with, biting his lower lip in a reminder that she is still mildly aggravated, though the edges are softening and she will be liquid gold in his palms by the time she returns home.
“I love you too,” he reassures, and will make sure to murmur against every inch of her skin once she arrives with the anger expired from her pores, ready to be cleansed with his sempiternal devotion to her all over again.
Because, if anything, the aftermath of their arguments are but a genuine reminder of why they so earnestly love each other in the first place.
Note: Hi Everyone. I wrote a Thing. Many thanks to @mulder-fight-him and @kateyes224 for encouraging me to write it and for making it not suck. As this is the first Thing I’ve written in over a year, I’d appreciate any feedback. Except the feedback of “You suck, this sucks, never write again.” My brain tells me that every time I write a Thing, I don’t need you telling me that too. :-)
She is a coffee connoisseur. Dripped from a
contraband coffeemaker in a dorm room during an all-nighter to try to
understand biochemistry. Gulped without tasting, still scalding hot, as she ran
between patients. Sipped from a mug that warmed her hands as her eyes twinkled
at her lover in his parents’ cabin after an unsuccessful ice fishing
And then…Styrofoam cups in police stations,
ranging from barely palatable to resembling raw sewage. Fuel just to keep up
with her brilliant partner and his spooky leaps of logic. Picked up from gas
stations and drive thrus, as they ran from case to case. Chipped mugs in diners
with free refills, as they tried to find enough motivation to chase down
endless dead ends on the search for the one lead that would answer the
question, slay the monster, save the day. Pots made in a dingy basement office
and then ignored as their arguments about the merits of the case energized them
more fully than any caffeine could, where winning meant they would stay in the
musty dark room but losing meant traipsing through fields in the rain and
chasing Bigfoot. She’d never admit it, but she there were times when she
preferred it when she lost, because losing meant a new chance to share a secret
world with this man, one no outsider would ever understand.
She had opinions on the quality of coffee around
the country. She could tell whether she’d have heartburn from it with just a
sniff of the air as she walked into the convenience store – often before the
bell on the door had stopped chiming. She knew which chains refilled their
carafes regularly and would request stops there.
One convenience store in Utah had no coffee, the
Mormon cashier saying that caffeine was against his religion, but could he
interest her in a coke instead? Mulder had laughed as she had ranted about
ignorance, the comparative levels of caffeine in cola versus coffee, her First
Amendment rights, and the heartburn caused by the carbonation for the next 50
But she didn’t remember the taste of the most
important cups of coffee in her life.
The mug she left half finished at her mother’s
kitchen table after scattering her father’s ashes, claiming a work emergency so
she could make a quick escape because she couldn’t handle expecting her father
to join them any second, complaining that they hadn’t saved him any, stealing
sips from her mother’s cup as they talked and he waited for a refill to brew.
The disposable cup Mulder had pressed into her
fist in a Minneapolis field office, giving a statement as she tried to regain
her professionalism after losing her composure in front of 20 agents.
The pots she made in her mother’s kitchen,
drifting on autopilot after they had buried her sister. That day, she tried a
bag of “Tranquil Moments” herbal tea Melissa had left in the cupboard and had
once tried to make her drink because it “isn’t healthy for you to be running
around nonstop, Dana, you need a chance to breathe too.”
The cup a week after her first round of chemo,
which tasted like metal covered in dirt. She had spat it back into the mug and
thrown up in the kitchen sink. For months afterwards, she’d silently accepted
every cup Mulder offered her, but threw it out as soon as his back was turned.
The coffee breaks she’d shared with Mulder while
they were stuck on Kersh’s fertilizer duty, walking down the street to the
hipster coffee shop with the twenty year old whose facial hair changed weekly.
After one particularly awful session in the AD’s office, Mulder had asked for
an application, and the barista laughed, assuming he was joking. She was only
half sure he wasn’t.
A thermos full of Irish coffee as they propped
themselves against the chain link backstop of an abandoned baseball diamond,
talking about everything and nothing, still feeling the heat of his body
pressed against her back and wondering if she should have turned around and
kissed him when she had the chance.
The slow brews she’d shared with Mulder on lazy
Sunday mornings, the taste chased from her tongue by Mulder’s slow kisses.
The ones she’d refused while pregnant and
nursing, the lack of sleep and caffeine adding a dream-like state to the
months, so that when she looked back at that time, it took on an otherworldly
sheen. (It didn’t help that any explanation of those two years sounded
absurdist to any outside observer – “My partner was abducted by aliens,
returned dead, buried for three months and then exhumed because he wasn’t dead,
just in stasis.” “Even though I had no ova due to experiments conducted on me
against my will by a shadow government, I had a baby who was considered the
greatest single threat to an alien invasion and consequently was in constant
danger until I gave him up for adoption.”)
The cup that sat on her mother’s table as she
tried desperately to explain herself, (“I don’t think I’ll ever understand,”
her mother had responded tearfully), her own tears blurring her vision as her
mother kissed her grandson goodbye for the last time.
The rushed caffeine fixes on the run, cups she
picked up at 5AM in truck stops, wearing a hoodie that covered hair dyed blond,
brown, black, and even for a little while back to red, while Mulder hid in a
run-down motel room. She couldn’t remember the taste of anything during those
months, fear chasing all the flavor away.
And then, once again, gulping scalding servings
down between patients, children this time, as she saved other people’s babies
because she was unable to care for her own.
Impromptu coffee dates with Mulder, him sipping
his morning coffee with bleary eyes and bed head, her drinking a cup of decaf
before bed, smelling of antiseptic soap and latex, fighting sleep because she
hadn’t seen him in three days and she missed him.
The cup she made all alone in his kitchen (no
longer hers, all her belongings packed up and in the back of her car), leaving
the pot mostly full so he’d have something to drink when he ambled out of his
lair, washing the mug so it wouldn’t sit in the sink for days before walking
out the door.
Then one day, the coffee pot ignored once again
in the basement as they discussed cases, tentatively at first as they tried to
regain their footing, then found themselves and each other again. One morning,
as she dropped her briefcase off in her area, looking at his desk in his
office, she wondered if she hadn’t found herself back in the same endless
circle. Then Mulder had shaken her out of her musings with a hand on her
shoulder and a discolored mug as an offering. Their fingers touched and she
realized that they aren’t circling back to the start but traveling onwards
The coffee Mulder made as she tried to arrange
her mother’s funeral, untouched in the carafe as she thought about her
reuniting with Ahab and Missy, and jealously wishing that she’d be with them
soon (but only for a moment before pushing the forbidden thought out of her
And then, one night, the specialty coffees
Mulder brought to her apartment, sitting untouched on her kitchen counter as
they fell into bed together again. She made a fresh pot for him the next
Jasper Jordan preferences:
How you two hug: Jasper was a very touchy feely guy. So when it came to hugs, he wouldn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around your waist and bury his head into your neck, or sometimes, in between your boobs. You’d stroke his hair sweetly. Kissing his forehead. He’d pick you up by your waist and spin you if he was feeling cheeky.
How you two kiss: For some reason, Jasper didn’t know how to initiate kisses. He’d often stare at your lips before his eyes flickered to yours and you’d take the hint as he slowly leaned in. They were sweet and slow. Slow make out sessions brewed quickly and he’d have his hands on your waist and yours around his neck. He’d murmur compliments probably. It’d be precious omg.
How you two have sex: Jaspers…well…an adventurer. He’d dabble in a lot of kinks. So one day it’d be vanilla and the next he’d attempt to get himself off watching you masturbate. He’d try to talk dirty. More times than not though, you two have sweet, meaningful sex. Rough sex, not consistent. Only 2 days out of the month would a new kink be attempted ;)
“Despite its ironic lack of windows, Sunstone illuminates patrons with a warmth once reserved for storybook coffee shops tucked behind secret storefronts and vanishing walls,” Cat read. “Inside the cozy nook, time halts to a pace as decadent as their slow drip cold brew. Life’s questions dissolve before they have a chance to be spoken, beneath meringue clouds and English toffees too beautiful not to taste. Within this haven, my sweet tooth is happy, my anxieties frozen, and I am transported to a place I never knew I so desperately needed to visit. Isn’t this a bit much?”
“What?” Kara’s eyes shot open. She had almost fallen asleep to the sound of Cat’s melodic voice, head resting in her lap, hair fanned out against thighs as fingers lazily stroked through it. “You…don’t think it’s…”
“I didn’t say that,” she hummed, removing her glasses. “It’s enchanting, but also more than any establishment with no advertising budget tends to receive.”
“But…it’s a review,” Kara argued. “They opened less than a month ago. Maybe after this, they’ll have the means to start…marketing…”
“Listen to you,” Cat smirked proudly.
“Are you…” Kara sat up, the little crinkle between her eyebrows appearing as she bit her lip from the inside. “…why are you teasing me?”
“Because,” Cat threw aside the tablet, lifting the younger woman’s chin, noting the color in her cheeks, the way her blue eyes swirled with fire. “Your words…like the rest of you…are perfect. And I’m not ready for you to nod off just yet.”
“Oh?” Kara scoffed, half serious, half ready for whatever game Cat was playing. “So you’d rather me doubt myself then? Put up a fight instead of just telling me what you want?”
“Hmmm,” Cat buried her fingers deep into her mane, letting her nails graze the nape of her neck. “And what, exactly, do you think it is that I want?”
Kara swallowed, wanting to stay angry, wanting to prove she could defend herself if need be, but melting under Cat’s glowing cheekbones and gentle smile instead.
“I think,” she whispered, pushing up with strong arms on the leather sofa, until her legs straddled either side of Cat’s hips. “You want…my head back in your lap…and for me to stay there…until I make you forget how to speak.”
Cat’s eyes narrowed, even as she swallowed.
“I really shouldn’t indulge this,” Kara sighed, resting their foreheads together, kissing her nose. “You know I care what you think…more than…”
“I love it,” Cat told her, stealing a taste of her lips, smiling at the way Kara chased them as they disappeared. “You’ve blossomed into one of the best writers CatCo has ever seen. Don’t let anyone’s opinion, even mine, stop you from owning that.”
Kara beamed back at her, grabbing her face, kissing her hard, letting the sound of the rain outside drown out all her self doubt, until she was sliding down Cat’s body, pressing between her knees, both of them far from falling asleep.
You have your mother's eyes - Severus Snape One Shot (Request)
Request: May I have a one shot where Harry has a twin sister that looks identical to Lily, and Snape is very protective, and treats her special, but nobody knows why until after he dies ^^ please
A/N: By the way, yes, that Hailey James-thing was a One Tree Hill reference. 😁
Severus Snape entered the room, hovering to the front of the room and tapped his wand loudly on his table several times. Most of my class was already silenced when his voice had sounded and who was not quiet until then, was now so quiet that you couldn’t even hear each other breathing. “We will begin immediately, because as you know yourself, you are unbearably slow in brewing potions.” Snape looked from one to the next student and threw a disgusted look at each. He stopped when he saw Hailey James. “Where is your cauldron, Miss James?” He asked quietly and I saw Hailey shuddered briefly. “Um … I … um … I forgot it,” stammered Hailey. Snape’s eyebrows went up and he looked down at his student. “You forgot the equipment, huh?” he said.“Detention after class.”
“B-but, sir! We … We have an awful lot of homework and I can’t-” “That does not interest me at all, James. For the protest, another hour of detention. Perhaps you will soon remember the equipment you need for my class. ” I could no longer listen to this conversation without saying anything, so I stood from my chair and shortly afterwards my voice sounded loud and clear. “Professor Snape, sir, that’s unfair! And as Head Girl I can not let that happen.” Snape whirled around and glared at me. For a moment his eyes softened, then he said slowly: “You …” his voice trailed off briefly and he cleared his throat, “You’re Head Girl?” I nodded. He still stared at me, but then he turned to Hailey again. “You will appear after the lessons for one hour of detention.” The class began to murmur in surprise, but the teacher silenced them and continued to teach.
After Potions class I left the classroom in good mood. I looked out the window, on which ice crystals had formed, but shortly after that my view was blocked by Hailey. “I wanted to thank you,” she said with a smile, “I still have to go to detention, but at least not as long. Maybe I can even do my-”
“Hailey!” My conversation partner and I turned around. Just a few meters away from us stood Draco Malfoy, a boy from Slytherin. He had narrowed his eyes and did not look pleased. “You don’t need to thank this disgusting Halfblood!” he said determined. “I helped her,” I interjected. “So what?” Malfoy retorted. “She could have also done that without you. She didn’t need your help!”
“Malfoy, I think you have class,” murmured a deep voice behind him and Snape stepped out of the shadows. “Professor, I just wanted to rebuke this snooty ‘Head Girl’ that she must not contradict a teacher,” Malfoy said with a nasty smile. “If a student needs to be reprimanded,” Snape said, “I take care of it personally. But I don’t need the help of a student.” Draco stared at his teacher surprised, then he slung the bag over his shoulder and stalked off, but not without throwing me an angry look. I saw from Hailey to the Professor, but before I could thank him, he had turned and was gone.
Time Skip - One year later
The Battle of Hogwarts had been going on for a while now. I didn’t know how long, I’ve completely lost my sense of time. McGonagall threw spells around and all the teachers and students did the same. Many of the students had fled when the first Death Eaters arrived at Hogwarts.
But not me. Harry was also still at Hogwarts, of course. He could not escape from Lord Voldemort.
Many of our friends were with us. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger thought about a plan with Harry and me, as Hermione interjected: “We should concentrate on the last Horcrux. Nagini!” We looked at each other startled, but nodded in agreement. “Harry, you can always see these prophecies,” Ron said, “Try to concentrate, will you?” Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. I felt that his hand was shaking violently. Suddenly he slapped his hand to his scar and screamed. After a few seconds it was over and my twin brother gasped fearfully. “It … it worked, right?” Hermione asked timidly, staring at Harry. He nodded. I became curious: “What did you see?” “Voldemort. He’s in the boathouse. And Nagini is with him.”
“Come on, we have to go there!”
Ten minutes later we arrived at the boathouse of Hogwarts. Quietly Hermione, Ron, Harry and I crept into it and ducked behind one of the boats. “Ah, Severus.” Lord Voldemort’s voice sounded, causing our blood to freeze. “Snape is with him,” I whispered, but Ron held up a finger to his lips and motioned for me to be quiet. “Oh, Severus, my faithful friend, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. I, Lord Voldemort, am indeed in the possession of the most powerful wand in the world”, Voldemort made a short, dramatic pause, “but unfortunately it doesn’t work more powerful than an ordinary wand at the moment. I found out that it can be mastered completely only by the person, who killed his former master.” I heard footsteps on the old wooden floor, apparently he moved towards Snape. “So I came to the incredibly heartbreaking conclusion,” I ventured a gaze over the edge of the boat, behind which we hid, and saw that Lord Voldemort was very close now to Snape and almost whispered in his ear. He spoke very slowly when he said: “I - must - kill - you.” I saw how Snape’s eyes grew wide and I could feel his fear. “I’m really sorry, Severus. You’ve been a faithful follower.” Voldemort laughed terrifyingly. Then he shouted: “NAGINI!” The giant snake wriggled towards the Dark Lord and crawled alongside the boat a few steps next to us. Snape stiffened at the sight of the snake, but before he could do anything, it had already attacked him. I cried out, but Harry pressed a hand to my mouth.
A moment later, Voldemort was gone and I jumped out of our hiding place. “Hermione! Help!” I screamed and dropped down beside the Professor. “Y/N …?” gasped Snape. “Help him!” I yelled at my friends. “You have to do anything!” Hermione, who was standing behind me, sadly put a hand on my shoulder. “Look-at-me,” Snape said very quietly. “What?” I asked, puzzled, tears running down my face. “You- you have your mother’s eyes,” he murmured. I stared at him, confused. Suddenly a single tear ran down his cheek. “Keep-my-memories” gasped Snape. I did not understand what he meant, but Hermione pulled out a small vial out of her bag, like the ones we had used in potions lessons, and catched the tear before it dropped on Snape’s black robes.
Snape was trying to breathe, but it didn’t work: The wound on his neck was too big. Meanwhile the wooden floor of the boathouse was coloured blood red. Slowly Severus closed his eyes. I wanted to do something, anything, but Hermione, Ron and Harry pulled me out of the boathouse. “No, stop! We can’t just leave him there!”
“We can do nothing for him, Y/N!” Ron shouted upset.
The three took me to Dumbledore’s old office and at first I didn’t understand why, but then they showed me the Pensieve. Hermione dripped Snape’s last memory in there and we watched as Snape spoke with my mother many years ago, playing with her - I had never seen him that happy. Then the memories he had with James, my father, and his friends came on and I finally understood why he was so embittered - he had never been able to recover from it. As the memories faded, Ron said: “Wow, Y/N. You look so much like your mother.”
During dead times at my first cafe, we’d often tell each other riddles or try and make coffee shop-themed parodies of songs. It’s an excellent pastime.
In the style of Semisonic:
Closing time One more load of dishes and balance the last open till Closing time No, there aren’t more pastries and no, you can’t get a refill Closing time Our doors are going to lock soon, so pack up and disappear Closing time You don’t have to go home But you can’t stay here
In the style of The Notorious B.I.G.:
I love it when you call me “Barista” Throw your hands up when you write another cup I love it when you call me “Barista” To my homies gettin’ money when the patron is a dummy I love it when you call me “Barista” You got a towel at your waist to wipe down the whole place ‘Cause I see old ladies in the lounge and yoga moms with babies Baby
In the style of LMFAO:
When I walk behind the bar, all eyes on me With employee discount, my drinks are free We like Sumatra, we love French Roast When school gets out, everybody it’s on Shots shots shots shots shots shots The hipsters love us When we pull shots Pretentious orders And argyle socks They came for caffeine How 'bout you? The hopper’s full Let’s go round two Shots shots shots shots shots shots
In the style of Dev:
If you’re at my coffee lounge There’s something you gotta know: Our decaf’s made to order And it brews real slow Yeah, we can do pour-over But it brews real slow
One, two, three fuck it You can take this house drip and just suck it Fish tank that thing along with four long pulls of Espresso I give a fuck about going home Straight fiending, caffeineing, Wanna get a mocha this evening? Wanna get this milk that I’m steaming? G-g-g-get this milk that I’m steaming? Yeah, I like it hot Add another shot G-give you that Coffea arabica You know that shade-grown crop
And the latest of mine, with the help of one of my former coworkers:
Hahaa… please don’t steal these, though. We’re proud of our stupid dorkery. Feel free to add on, though.
She can taste the sound of her name on her tongue. It’s a breath between them, with his voice low and mouth so close to hers that she doesn’t remember how to think, how to breathe — just Soul and his eyes, Soul and the way his lips part, Soul and the hand combing through her hair.
She knows what she thinks she wants. There’s danger in this closeness with him because he’s a lot more than just some boy; he’s Soul, weapon partner and roommate. He’s Soul, who’s breath smells of vague citrus shades and the fruit punch that they both know Black*Star spiked. The closet is too tightly packed and he’s right there on top of her, all scalding bedroom eyes and heated breath that makes her want to push him against the wall and learn his mouth, learn his voice and tongue and everything in between.
But she doesn’t because she can’t – shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t – so she breathes his name back, and she’s impressed that her voice isn’t lost in the buffer of hanging coats and the vacuum that stabs Soul in the side.
He’s so close that every twitch and brush of his lips is against hers, the tiptiptips of mouths grazing and fluttering eyelids, and Maka shudders out a break. She wants so badly that it hurts somewhere deep within her, where she’s hot and damp and aching for him, aching. He groans her name and something changes, something catches flame and burns and she leans.
It’s slow burning and passionate. Soul turns his head and his hand finds her jaw. He holds her there and slides his tongue along the crease of her lips, and Maka’s never kissed anyone before but she’s ready to learn; it’s warm and wet and the noise Soul makes when she tugs her fingers through his hair makes the heat she holds for him fluster and spread. The tension breaks with such a slow brewing sureness that neither of them notice the door open.
Soul’s hand is cupping her breast and her hands are in his back pockets when Kid squawks an apology and slams the door. They’re combing their fingers through their hair and sending each other shy, anxious smiles when Liz rips open the door and demands details.
Summary: Phil explains why almost is his least favorite
Almost is the worst word in the English language. Sure it doesn’t sound gross, but the meaning
makes my stomach ache and drop, twist and turn. In some contexts it’s fine,
preferable even, but in most, the word seems to just trigger something no one
wants to feel. From what I learned, almost is like a poison that is used by
everyone without much thought. It’s lying in wait at the surface, ready to
strike. Almost is failed potential, failed greatness. Almost is when we are so
close but not quite there. Almost is like saying you tired but didn’t succeed. Almost
is everything good that didn’t quite happen. Almost is everything that failed,
trying to make it sound positive. It almost
For me, almost never bothered me until my three am thoughts
found its way to you again. The ‘almost’s in our relationship were great, until
they weren’t. While they were good almost seemed like a blessing, but the
almost’s turned sour, and hard to swallow. The almost’s seemed to be daggers
hitting my heart with every use. The almost’s made it sound fine to anyone else
but to me, to us, they sounded like a wicked laughter to our ears. The almost’s
were plentiful. The almost’s were nothing more than being so close to something
and yet so far. I know you probably don’t care, and maybe you’ve even ripped
this up and thrown it away, almost remembering
me. Almost. I almost forgot you yesterday, after the seventh bottle, but once
again that’s only an almost. I didn’t. How could I? If you are still reading,
well, I almost wish you wouldn’t, but
that is not completely what I want or else I wouldn’t have sent this to you
after writing this with tears streaming down my face at four am almost hitting the paper and smudging my
messy half-drunk handwriting. Because I am most absolutely positive that you
are almost sorry for what happened to
us. Because, my love, you almost stayed.
I wrote a little list of some of our almost’s, in order from the start to the
end of our almost great relationship,
to help you see why almost is a slow brewing poison.