#bitter coffee

[logophilist1982]

Coffee aesthetic

[tearinmyside]

day 27...

the fragile flutter of hope

finds a home around a slender neck, fingers pressed around a talisman, a closed eyed wish for courage in the face of this collision of worlds. hands clasp a holly branch, bitter coffee on the tongue, numbers fall like sleet over a steel roof. the cover of clouds, to mine guttural sinew in the face of finality. heart race and behind the back crossed fingers hold your black lunged exhales, ready for expulsion into clarity and refuge.

-kab

@nosebleedclub day 27 prompt

[full-of-rage-and-adoration]

I forgive too easily, but trust me when I say I will never, ever, forget.

[eloquenthubak1982]

[crmsnmth]

Bitter Coffee

The diner's coffee is dark and so bitter that it almost bites. The smell of burnt coffee grounds flow up in a steam warning. Don't drink this, it pleads. Go somewhere else. Somewhere better, but please don't drink this. I close my eyes and take a sip. It's hot, it's bitter, it's instant heartburn in a cup. Start the day the acid reflux way with a handful of Tums and a full shot on pink Pepto Bismuth. Sometimes consequences last a life time and you pay for mistakes forever. My stomach is proof of what drugs do to the insides. I am scar tissue and weak spots where the stomach acid is burning through the walls of my stomach. It will split, and it will hurt, but it will happen and when it does, I can only hope that I'm alone. The doctor's will say theirs nothing here to save, and I'll agree from astral projection. I'll sign a DNR the minute you put it in my face. If there's nothing left to live for, when's left to live? I did this to myself, even though I like to blame others, I know, deep down, it was all my choices that lead my to a a body covered in pinprick scars and white train tracks up and down my forearms. Or the circle burn marks, or the stab wounds in my chest, or the spot where the bullet bounce off my kneecap. I take another sip of coffee and forcefully swallow it down. In a few minutes, the caffeine of trucker coffee will hit me. And I will tremor and shake, and lost train of thought, and feel sicker to my stomach. There's an old man sitting at the corner next me., eating the yolks of his over easy eggs with a piece of diner brand burnt wheat toast. I can see the butter already melted onto the break. It drips off and splatters the polished counter top. He eats nosily, the sounds he makes almost sexual. Letting specks of grease and egg and toast take refuge in a salt shaker beard. A tired looking woman serenades the tables with promises of more acidic coffee and pie and meatloaf and pancakes and sausage links. Menus act as hymnals we read from before the sun rises on a Sunday morning. Most of the people are just waking up and I haven't slept in four days, at the far end of yet another bender. My eyes burn from being open too long and I swear that I can see the very shadows move.

Sometimes I hear my name being called, but there's never anyone who actually knows my name. No one cares. Even my own imaginary friend said fuck this and packed their things and they were gone. Nobody, not even the pretend, want to be around someone who does nothing but try to kill themselves by loophole tricks, who bitch's and moans about a girl who doesn't even remember him, who never can see the good in anything he actually has, who is the definition of cynical. I can't blame the friends who loved me to leave. Nobody wants to watch a loved one self-destruct completely, nobody wants to see a man hellbent on slamming into rock bottom, face first, broken neck. Silence. Peace. I take a sit of my coffee and wonder how these coffee mugs keep the liquid hot much longer than the mugs I have stashed back at home. I look at the mug, getting out of my head, because that's a bad place to be when you're coming down and realizing what you've become and it's sick, and it's gross, and it's dirty and I'm a fucking derelict. I have done my laundry in over a month. I want to apologize. I want to yell in everyone's face. I want to die, I want to live, I want to not be afraid. I want to be less paranoid. I want to take care of myself again, but the little baggie with powdery residue says I'm fucking lying. I'm always lying. I am a con artist, and I'm dangerously good at it. Fall in love with me, and if I keep it up, your mine forever. The tired woman fills my coffee mug for the third time. It's bitter taste stays on my tongue. It distracts me. My head hurts, and my stomach hurts and my body aches. I can't remember all that much for the past few days. And that relieves me because I'm not really sure I want to. I don't want to face the shame I should probably feel. The man next to me finished his food. It is quiet again, other than the sounds of the kitchen, the low drone of other's voice. I signal for my check. Four cups of a coffee and an order of white toast. My stomach hurts. It's time to make it home and sleep this off until the next one starts

[softlymellow]

bitter coffee -- P.M

pairing: Pietro Maximoff x reader (Marvel)

word count: 1.4k

warnings: angst :’((

------

There you were, sitting in the café, waiting for Pietro to come back. But he stood there, laughing and complimenting the girl who wanted him.

Why the hell would he ask you on a date just to leave you for another girl?

You took a sip from your latte, the liquids warming you up before getting up and throwing it in the bin beside your table. Grabbing your handbag, tears brimmed your eyes as you pushed your chair back into the table. You knew you shouldn’t have gone on this date but false hope and Wanda’s encouragement told you otherwise.

The sound from the door brought Pietro's attention back to you, his eyes darting around the shop looking for your figure. Looking out the window, he saw you walking past, visibly upset, clutching your handbag around your shoulder.

Pietro moved past the girl he was talking to who seemed confused at the sudden change in mood, “not now.” He held his hand up to tell the girl to stop, before using his ability to catch up to you.

A small gust of wind suddenly flew next to you, hastily wiping the tears that stained your cheeks.

“Fuck off, Pietro.” You said, not taking the chance to look at his figure.

“Y/n, wait a second.” His accent drawing you in, shaking your head you continued speed walking, Pietro right beside you.

He grabbed your hand forcing you to stay still, locking eyes with him you saw the confusion plastered on his face. “What did I do?”

Your eyes widened, scoffing in disbelief. “Are you serious, Pietro?” Shaking him off you, you walked away and stood on the sidewalk trying to hurl a taxi to come.

“Y/n, I’ll take you to the tower and we can talk about this.” Pietro’s voice behind you, attempting to fix things.

Spinning your head around, you glared at him, “Is this how you guys do things in Sokovia? Do you all just flirt with other girls during a date?”

Pietro was taken aback by this comment and the insult to his homeland. “It’s always a losing game with you, Pietro. Next time don’t ask me out if this is how it’s going to be.”

There were times when Pietro knew what to say to every girl, but there he stood flabbergasted, unsure what to say.

Whipping your head around, you called over a taxi before entering inside. Pietro stood still, watching the automobile leave. He sighed, wiping his face and leaving his fingers to his mouth. He inhaled deeply before leaving to the car that was lent to him.

You sat inside the taxi, tapping your fingers against your thigh impatiently waiting to reach the tower. You took in a shaky breath, upset over the dilemma and because you’ve had feelings for the Sokovian man for a while now.

---

Leaving the elevator, you took slow steps towards your room. Feelings of disappointment and sadness washing over you once you entered your room. Throwing your shoes to the side and hanging your bag, you fell on your bed.

Recalling the events of today, waves of tears hit you and you let it run freely down your cheeks.

A knock on the door caused you to shoot right up, hastily wiping the smeared mascara that rested on you. Debating whether to answer, you sat still, if it was Pietro you didn’t want to see him.  

“Y/n, it’s me.” Wanda’s voice softly called out from behind the door.

“Come in,” you croaked, clearing your throat.

Wanda opened the door, peeking in, she saw the pensive look on your face and immediately entered in and hugged you tightly. Her perfume comforted you, holding her tightly.

“Your brothers a dick.” You whispered, tears streaming your face once again.

“I know, I know,” She soothed you, caressing your hair.

“Why’d you make me go on that date if you knew he wasn’t interested?” You pulled back, looking at her face.

She shook her head, “he is in love with you, Y/n. He just doesn’t know what to do about it.”

You laughed softly, “that’s stupid.”

“Pietro has never had really strong feelings for a woman before, now that he does, he’s afraid.” She explained, grabbing your hands and tracing over your knuckles.

“He told me all about it, he’s very upset.”

This angered you slightly, how was he the one that was upset? You furrowed your brows, Wanda took notice of this.

“It may seem like he doesn’t care, Y/n. But he does, a lot.” She stood up, removing herself from you, “if he tries to speak to you, please be understanding.” She shot you a small smile before leaving the room.

You sat there alone, repeating the conversation in your head, maybe you were just exaggerating it. After Ultron you nearly lost Pietro, recognising that made you slowly gain feelings for him. His fun yet cocky self attracted you and you could only wish that he felt the same way. So when he asked you out, you were beyond happy. But the blatant disrespect you felt during that date made you doubt yourself, if he couldn’t handle a simple date what would happen if we began dating?

That's how you spent the rest of the night, sitting up and thinking about all possible reasons why he wouldn’t like you. You sat on the floor of your bedroom, the wide window that covered the entire wall was painted with rain droplets. A view of the night cities, lightings glowing from the skyscrapers.

You wore a silky baby pink gown that ended in your thighs, it had lace that surrounded the top and bottom part of the dress. Cross-legged, you listened to the soft patters of rain that offered you solace.

You weren’t planning on staying mad at him, after thinking about Wanda's words for a while, you thought it made sense. But remembering how he acted during the date still bothered you, and simply flirting with other girls because you’re afraid just didn’t sit right with you.

A quiet knock on your door interrupted your thoughts, whipping your head around and taking a glance at the clock it read 1:41 am. The door opened and it revealed Pietro’s disheveled appearance. His hair was disorganised, his eyes had a sullen look, he wore grey sweatpants and a thrown-on black shirt.

It was a usual occurrence for Pietro to enter without a response, he would usually say ‘if it's not locked then I’m free to enter', in his thick Sokovian accent.

“Y/n?” He called out, entering the room and shutting the door behind him. The rain and lighting offered a peaceful atmosphere, a soft blue glow on your face.

You looked away from him and continued your gaze towards the cities. Pietro took this as an opportunity to come and sit next to you, he sat cross-legged; his knees grazing yours. Butterflies swarming your insides at the slightest touch of him.

Pietro was thankful for his abilities, it gave him the chance to stare at you longer but for you, it felt like a split second. He inhaled deeply, gazing at your face and the loose strand that fell on your face. “I’m sorry about the date,” he spoke carefully, you looked at him, urging him to go on.

“I just, fuck,” he laughed in between his sentences, nervous, “I’ve never met a girl like you before and it’s scary. You’re so beautiful and strong and you’re so much better than all the girls at Sokovia-” He took your hands in his, his eyes darting to every point in your face, “and there’s no one that I want more than you.”

"Pietro, you don't have to force yourself if you don't want to date me. I'm sure the girl there-"

He took your right hand a placed a soft kiss on your knuckles, interrupting you, "I want you. I wish you could see yourself from my eyes."

You felt a blush creeping up your face at his words. “Please, forgive me.” He said, begging you.

You slowly inched closer to him, bringing your hand away from his and to his face, he was drawn to you and there was nothing he could do about it. Your lips brushed his and his scent filled your insides. Sneaking a hand around your waist he pulled you in close and fill in the gaps between you.

Your stomach fluttered at the taste of him, he brought his other hand up to your cheek, deepening the kiss. Your lips moved in sync with his before pulling away slowly for a breath of air. He rested his forehead against yours and smiled.

“You look beautiful in that dress.” He whispered.

Your face turned beet-red, suddenly conscious of the article of clothing you’re wearing.

“Shut up, Piet.”

-----

a/n: omg somebody please request some pietro stuff plss im so obsessed with him atm AND AHH IM THINKING OF DOING THOSE LIKE TEXT AUS WHERE ITS ALL JUST TEXTING AND STUFF WITH PICSSSSS 

[mysticalcatwoman]

Is it weird that I can stand the bitterness of tea (I never put any kind of milk in black tea or any other kind) but not the bitterness of coffee? I always put almond milk in my coffee, though once in a blue moon I'll have cream in it.

I use almond milk in coffee because I believe it's the best choice, not only for calories but for health. Everyone has their preference of course, but that's mine. I wonder if other people think this as well...

As for sweeteners, I used to use monkfruit but now I use a combo of Splenda and Twin Sugar. I came to that after working out the combo of cost, taste and calories.

[grilledsquids]

i am brainstorming ways a lowly police officer with zero power would fuck with endeavor whenever they meet. besides setting off fire alarms around him, but that’s definitely coming up... maybe misinform the dispatcher so endeavor & all might end up at the same crime scene? send him an invoice for any police equipment he damages. accidentally give his contact info to a rabid fan. a passive aggressive interview with a reporter.