#cofee maker

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[onlainbazar]

[girlwithwolftatoo]

Hey only do this if you're comfortable with it but I saw you did stalker!reader with the moon boys so I thought it might be alright

Can I request stalker!miguel o'hara headcanons please, like maybe he's readers ex and reader is now finally over him and seeing other people??

There's two things that I enjoy to write naturally: sexy topics and dark topics ;D

Miguel O'Hara + being a stalker:

Miguel is a complicated person, his thoughts are just as tangled as a proverbial spiderweb, so, who could even suspect him, the headboss of Spider Society, would waste some of his precious time stalking a completely normal person? Well... he does.

His life before turning into Spiderman is a mystery for almost everyone. After losing his family (the actual one I mean), he got attached to you. You probably were a minor worker at Alchemax, something like an intern or even something simpler, but your personality dragged him to you in a special way. In the middle of his eternal night, you were the brightest star.

Nowadays you're not at Alchemax anymore, not after the... incident in which O'Hara became Spiderman. You continue your life, not thinking too much in those dark days when Alchemax dissapearted, unaware someone has an eye on you... the whole time.

Miguel is brilliant, brilliant enough to keep you closely watched without you even noticing. And he doesn't need of hidden cameras, the tech in his universe is advanced enough to allow him to stalk you directly from any device you willingly own (your phone, your computer, maybe some other devices for your daily life... my God this dude could even hack your cofee maker and you'd never notice).

Ocassionaly he opens some screens to look at you. If you're not at home, there's no problem... an issue with a highly tech city is nobody is safe of hackers. He loves following you from the darkness of his office, and takes some screenshots here and then.

Sometimes, he even goes out of the Spider-society to see you. Dressed on his Spiderman suit or, maybe, passing like another citizen, not daring to approach or speak to you,just staring... daydreaming of the good things that could happen if he just... if he just didn't have such a burden on his shoulders.

...Yes, that's sweet but here's another thing: if he notices someone's getting too close to you (aka a new relationship), he won't go smooth. He'll follow those person's steps with an obsesive need for finding the slightest excuse to drag them down and put them away, where they won't reach you anymore. He's a hero and everything, but Miguel can be... an extremist when it's about you, or anything he considers his property.

[charlesandmartine]

Tuesday 30th April 2024

We were allowed to sleep in today, well until 6.45 at least. We had to have had breakfast, a wash behind the ears and present ourselves out on the platform for an 8am departure. For some unexplained reason we had spent the night parked in Bulawayo Station which was fine because there was no motion from travelling along the tracks, but there was a fair bit of noise from the engines that needed to be running to provide power to all our Aircon devices. So the train disgorged all of us and repackaged us into a plush coach. Bulawayo is an intensively poor city and full of the signs of what it once was. The station was a lovely redbrick reminder of UK stations as they used to be. Buildings built without budget to house all the admin features required of a terminus of this importance but sadly falling on desperate times and having allowed it's grandeur to diminish along with it's status. Passing through its portals we found ourselves on its forecourt and viewing Bulawayo critically for the first time. To our left was a colonial building of once great importance but now gutted and roofless. As our coach pulled out onto the main thoroughfare immediately to our left was a huge coal powered power station. Things hardly improved as we drew closer to downtown. Huddles of men stood on street corners awaiting work, shops with little provenance or purpose were opening for the day, rubbish stood piled on the streets, pavements were churned up in disorder, little traffic flowed and third world rather than modern city was its flavour. We drove on and fairly soon the streets became more manicured and bungalows more suited to a comfortable Surrey town became more prevalent. Mormon, JW, Catholic, CofE churches filled one street. Strangely, martial music of military bands filled the coach sound system. 40km passed quickly and we reached our destination, the Matobo National Park. Here we swapped vehicles for Land Rover Defenders ready for a tour of the Game Reserve. Just to be different, I chose the seat that sat forward on the nearside front wing offering a great view, feeling a direct attachment to the surroundings, albeit out on a limb and at the mercy of any oncoming potholes or branches. Pulling over into a clearing were invited to get out of the vehicle, joining two guides armed with what appeared to be kallashnicoff rifles and move silently into the undergrowth. There in front of us was a young male, and female white rhino grazing. The accompanying information from our guide was that the pair could charge unexpectedly. Frankly we were half expecting it so we kind of kept to one side. However, the encounter was in many ways primeval and surreal to be that close and on foot and on the same level to such large and dangerous beasts. Their tusks had been cut back to make them less attractive to poachers but they were now growing again.

We were then shown some ancient rock paintings left by bushmen of old. We were told throughout the region there were similar examples which have been dated to 50,000 years ago indicating this area of Africa to possibly being the birthplace of humanity.

And then back to the Land Rovers for perhaps the main event; the visit to the grave and final resting place of Cecil John Rhodes. We parked up and started to climb the rock scree up to a ridge with stunning far reaching views across the plains of bush and trees. There surrounded by huge boulders and in a prominent imposing position was the simple tomb of the man, still highly regarded here as a benefactor and founder of the country of Zimbabwe, formerly known as Rhodesia. In his time; founder of De Beers diamond company, Prime Minister of the Cape Colony, peace maker with the Matabele people, established the Rhodes Scholarships which still exist today and many other achievements. Dying in March 1902 in the Cape and buried at his request here in the Matobo Hills. We have been so impressed with the richness and beauty of the countryside here in rural Zimbabwe, but the extremes of wealth set alongside the more prevalent state of poverty; the despair instilled by a political system that seems overwhelming to the individual in the street and the impossibility of rectifying it, excruciatingly high inflation at 104%, high unemployment, the cheerful long-suffering and peaceful nature of the people, have all continued to surprise us on this trip.

We were returned to our coach and hence to the train in time for lunch.

What a fantastic day!

[calorie-inkantation]

Extra Pillowy (stacking onto the previous one Captain 3 experienced)

She wasn't gonna fall asleep this time! she was gonna go get whatever cofee they had, down all of it, and keep herself from ,slacking off or getting any fatter

and as you can see, that plan fell through, as she's taking a nice nap, cofee maker in hand, while her body now covers the entirety of what used to be the squidbeak splatoon's base, don't wake her up though anon, she may still be plenty mobile, but her weight will affect YOU just fine

[kylievershion]

barks at you

WHERE IS MY COFEE MAKER

[the-light-finds-its-way]

I've got a really corny joke for you.

What did the coffee pot say to the cofee maker?

"We've been mugged!"

AKDJAJD Y'all are making me laugh like a kid again. I love y'all so much!!

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[deathbyvalentine]

Describe a Home

Imaginatively, it was called 'The Big House' and big it was. Four full sized floors and more petering off into the attic. It sat in a row of houses that young me understood to be 'posh' owned by the rich or rented out by estate agents squeezing out every penny from its occupants. I was never sure if the Big House was owned or rented and I harboured a secret belief that the housemates were squatters. It might have even been true.

The façade was white, peeling in places, the bottom wall decorated by some graffiti in electric blue. Nobody had bothered to clear it off. For all I know, it was done by one of the occupants.

And who were the occupants? There were a large number of them and they changed week by week, someone always leaving to go backpacking or to move to Europe to become a teacher. They were hippies, musicians, artists, communists, stoners, skaters, dreamers, amateur everythings, film makers, students, writers and more besides. Everywhere you looked there were dreadlocks, piercings, ink and paint stained fingertips, home made clothes, tattoos. To me they seemed the coolest people in the world and holding my father's hand, looking up at them, they became giants. They were his friends and I adored them all.

The inside was exactly how one would expect a chaotic commune to look. In the kitchen there were dishes mouldering in the sink, empty beer bottles stacked by the bin, a hundred flavours of herbal tea. The kettle was always boiling and it had a window that looked out onto a back garden that had been neglected enough it turned into nothing but brambles, reminding me of Sleeping Beauty's tower.

Ash trays balanced pecariously on the arms of sofas in the living room, no two chairs matching, magazines stacked on the cofee table and books placed here and there. There were a lot of them - books, I mean. And every single person was a reader, quotes tripping off their tongue the way other people might comment on the weather or football results. An avid bookworm myself, young though I was, they made me feel clever too, taking my reviews seriously, nodding along as I gushed about whatever I was reading.

Anders, a particular favourite of mine, a blonde Norwegian with blue eyes, showed me a particularly dazzling secret of the house. A tiny door I had passed a number of times, too small to even be a airing cupboard door. I had been unimpressed until he opened it. Having to crawl to get in, it revealed a set of steps opening into a bedroom. It had seemed magical to me at the time, like a fairy had played a trick. I wanted to stay in this house forever.

One summer day, everyone was stifled. The one negative of the house was the garden couldn't be used and it did not catch the sun. As the evening came and everyone got sick of being indoors, a team effort was mounted to move a couch across the (busy) road and place it in front of the opposite church, in the section of still-golden sunlight that we had so been lacking all day. Beers were cracked open, a battered boombox produced. Here, right on the street, a summer party started and all I could do was beam.

[gggoldfinch]

If i open a church all pews will be sofas actually and they 'll be put in more circular way with some cofee tables maybe and there will be more wine, a coffe maker there too. In the house of god we chill. And do fabric arts.

Church but it’s a cushioned socratic seminar for arts & crafts

[pouchmakers-ca]

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[furryprovocateur]

replaced our old cofee maker with a new one and now all my hot chocolate tastes like soap. . . jesus suffered less than me.