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kissofthespring · 3 years ago

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title: ruin the mob ship: iwaizumi x fem!reader (afab!reader) genre: yakuza x coffee shop au cw: blood, guns, violence, potential assault, face sitting, degradation, daddy kink. cute nicknames for the reader. unprotected sex. (wrap it up folks.) note: this is just part one. There will be a part two eventually. (oops.)

"Hajime..."

The wound won't stop bleeding. You can feel your consciousness slipping. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dummy. Tsubaki?!" He practically yells as he presses his steady hands to the wound.

"No, no, no."

How had you gotten here?

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Six months earlier.

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Iwaizumi ran his hand through his spikey locks as he stared at the image on his phone. A pretty girl with her hair pulled up and off her neck. The smile on her face reaches her eyes. She's mid-laugh this shot. "This is Ushijima's sister. She has no idea, though. She's his half-sister. Same father, different last name." Matsukawa says as he reads over the information on the laptop in front of him.

"She's just a girl. What did she do?" Hanamaki spits as he takes apart his gun and starts cleaning it. He's right in a way. You had just turned 29 years old. The smile on your face made Iwaizumi feel old. He had just turned 35, but he couldn't remember the last time he smiled like that.

"So, are we taking her hostage? Or..."

"Killing her. Little Cutie has a price on her head, it seems." Oikawa interrupted him, kicking his feet up onto the table. "It's a hefty one. Otherwise, I wouldn't have us take the job. Iwaizumi, you're the best, so it's on you."

"Tch. Fine." Iwaizumi had a weird rumble in his chest. What had you seen to get you on their radar? Or who had you spoken to? "She works for a coffee shop, yeah? This should be easy."

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Usually, whenever Iwaizumi Hajime got a job, he'd look over the provided profile and then take out the contract. Something about this one set him off. You probably had no idea you'd seen something. You looked like the type that would go to the cops right away if you'd seen something terrible. So clearly, to you, it was normal. He stepped onto another roof, watching you as you turned down an alleyway stepping toward the red light district. Now, this didn't make sense. This wasn't on his profile of you—a barista working her way through graduate school with no contact with your father. In fact, you didn't seem to have any family contact. He watched as you slipped into the red light coffee shop. Struck with the realization that you were exactly like your profile after all. You were setting the coffee in front of a customer when he walked into the shop. "Welcome. I'll be right there in a moment."

There's no line, so he moves to stand at the counter. He takes in your appearance over his shoulder. Yep, he can see Ushijima in your eyes. It's the shape and softness of your features that set the two of you apart. Not to mention your body. The curve of your breast visible beneath the black apron. The jeans you'd wiggled your way in were form-fitting. Your shirt was a half-buttoned black dress shirt. Just formal enough that you looked professional, but still, the cleavage made it sexy. Working in the red light district, you seemed to pick up something from the girls that frequented your establishment. You step back around the counter before grinning at the man in front of you.

“How can I help you today?”

Your voice is chipper as you lean against the countertop. You take in the appearance of the man in front of you. The all-black tech wear was something you were familiar with. There was a silver earring in his ear, and you could see a tattoo peeking up past his coat as you observed him. Fuck. He was your type. Probably covered in tattoos underneath the jacket on his frame. He was built too. Fuck.

But if he was in the red light district, you knew better. He was one of four things, a pimp, a john, a yakuza, or an escort. From the looks of him, you couldn't help but think that he was too pretty to be a pimp, so either he was getting some, or he was just a part of a crew. You rested your hip against the countertop as the man before you stared up at the menu above your head.

"Large coffee, black, and a small cup of ice water."

"Sure."

You turn to get his coffee and find him pulling out cash to pay. "Nope. You're new around here. On the house tonight. If I see you again, then I'll make you pay." You wink as you pass him the coffee, then move down to grab an ice cup. His eyes widen as you clear the total and smile again. "Usually, I hear a thank you for that."

"That's not a way to run a business..."

You pass the man the water before shrugging. "It's a cup of coffee; I sell more than I give away. Stand in front of me any longer, and I'll make you pay." He picked up the coffee, and the water moving over to the bar area. You could see the scowl on his face, though. Had you surprised him? Hm.

Hajime couldn't help but stare at the coffee cup with anger. Her blood would be on his hands, and she had given him free coffee... Was it foolish of him to think that perhaps whoever put a hit out on you was wrong? Probably. He couldn't help it, though. He watched you as you worked, made fresh coffee, dumped the dregs of the old one. Looked up at the door when the bell rang. Gave a smile to the old man in front of you and smiled that same smile at the gangster that crossed your threshold. You were glancing at the clock before throwing him what you thought was a subtle glance.

Hajime was nursing that same cup of now cold coffee three hours later. You two were alone in the shop; you were about to say something when the bell above the door rang, and your face turned cold. It was instantaneous the shift in the air.

"Hey, Pet." The man who entered called out with a grin. "Thought over my offer?" He lifts his still-lit cigarette to his lips, a smirk curling upon his lips. "This place really could use the protection, and... You'd make a lot more money."

"Listen, Futakuchi. You're great, and I even let you smoke in here when the sign says no smoking. But I'm not interested in being one of your girls, or protection for the shop. We manage fine, thanks." You turn your back to the man lifting a heavy pot of coffee to dump it out for the night. "I'm closing up for the night. Please leave, Futakuchi."

"What about that guy?"

The brown-haired gangster pointed at Iwaizumi, who offered you a smile as if he was willing to play along if need be. "He's my new employee... Now please leave." You glance over at Iwaizumi, who stands to his full height; he was glad that he had grown from his childhood. Now standing at 6'0, he was taller than the other man by centimeters, but it was enough. He shrugged off his coat, the tattoos along his arms finally visible. The brown-haired man had to know what they meant.

The Seijoh Syndicate was infamous. The traditional Japanese style, mixed with a floral and dragon motif... It worked for him. You admired for a moment before you cleared your throat and tossed Iwaizumi the keys for extra measure, "Lock the door after him, would you?" You noticed the way his muscles rippled as he nodded, "Well. The lady did say to leave." Futakuchi crushed his cigarette under his boot before turning around, "I'll be back, Y/N. Maybe next time, you'll be kinder."

"Doubt it!"

You called as Iwaizumi locked the door, and you clutched the edge of the countertop in front of you. "I... I can't thank you enough for helping me out. I'm sorry for getting you roped into this. Um. Thank you..."

"Iwaizumi Hajime." What a mistake that was for him to tell you and a way to identify him, but he did it.

"Thank you, Iwaizumi. You honestly saved me from having to be really aggressive with him. Ever since I opened this place, he's been trying to get in my pants." You take a heavy pot of coffee off the burner before moving to dump it in the sink.

"How did you know that you could trust me to play along with you?" Iwaizumi asked gruffly, settling back into the seat at the bar. When you shrugged, "I didn't. But I hoped that you would. If you wait for me to finish up, I'll split the tips with you for your help. I just don't trust that he's gone." Iwaizumi gave you another nod before siping on his cold coffee. Even cold, it tasted good. Weird. Must be the beans she used. He watched as you locked up the safe for the night and then stood up.

Your head could nestle just under his chin if he so wished it. He didn't, but you could. As you grabbed your bag and handed him his portion of the tips, you grinned. "You know, I understand you might not need the job, but if you wanted a position here..."

He cut you off before you could finish. "I don't. You shouldn't be so generous. Someone will one day take advantage of that kindness." Damn it... It was him. Iwaizumi realized. He would be the one because he was going to have to kill you eventually. You watched as the man grabbed his coat and left the shop. You turned on the alarm then stepped out into the back alley behind your shop.

You were walking home, your keys stuck between your fingers when you felt it. The shift in the wind, someone was following you. When they struck, you'd thought you'd be ready, but your head was pushed against the brick, and the hand that you had your keys in was twisted behind your back sharply. "Sh, Pet. I just... I don't think you're safe working with that guy. Nor do I think you're safe on your own." The mouth of the man who had been trying his damndest to get with you found our neck. He was pushing you against the wall with his body weight and one hand. His other was tracing the waist of your jeans. You thought that if anything like this was to ever happen to you, you'd struggle or something, but you froze.

He pulled your arm a little harder, causing you to yelp. "Let her go." There's a click behind you, and your eyes find the green ones of Iwaizumi. The gun in his hands looks huge; you shrink into yourself when Futakuchi lets you go. "Hey man... Look, I let her go. Whatever, Y/N. If this is who you're with now, I'm out. Fucking bitch." Iwaizumi raises his arm, shooting into the sky, causing you to flinch, and the man who was now cursing your existence to scrambles away.

You had shrunken in on yourself when you felt a hand press against your forehead. "You okay? Let me help you home." You clung to him and directed the man who saved you from another to your home. What a fool you were. You had no idea what he was sent to do. As you pressed your key into the door, you looked up at the man, "Can I repay you somehow?"

"Don't be so kind. You just saw what happens when someone wants to take advantage of that kindness. Next time I won't be there. So... No. Go take a shower and eat something. Good night, Dummy."

You were about to tell him not to call you that, but exhaustion took over, and you just slipped inside your apartment instead. Meanwhile, Iwaizumi was documenting the exits and entrances around your place. God damnit. Taking you out could be easy if you weren't so... Good.

This was a bad hit.

Whoever had it out for you had it for the wrong reasons.

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It went on like this for five weeks. Iwaizumi would show up three hours before closing, hang out in your coffee shop and then walk you home. You had gotten to know bits and pieces of him too, and he had done the same with you.

One night it's the two of you left in the store, locked up for the night. You weren't paying him any attention when he brushed your hair out of your face a bit gentler than you thought Iwaizumi would be, making you drop the peach scone you were bagging up for the night. "Fuck!"

He's laughing, doubled over, clutching his stomach as you smack his arm. "That's what gets you to swear, Tsubaki? I was gentle. What would you do if I wasn't?" The tension is right there between the two of you. "Shut up, you jerk." You reach for your scone to throw it away when you noticed he hadn't stepped away or gone back to his coffee. "Come driving with me, Tsubaki. It's a nice night." Your eyes met his before you nodded, fiddling with the keys in your hands, "Sure. I'm almost done..."

You finished the closing tasks, turned off the lights around the store, pushed the money through the red door on the safe, and finally set the alarm for the night. Iwaizumi was smoking a cigarette outside the door when you slipped out of the shop. "Okay, I'm ready." He took in your appearance for a moment. You wore a black skirt today, and the thin black top left little to the imagination. God, he liked you. It still lingered in his mind; he was supposed to kill you.

Oikawa had gotten annoyed at him for not completing the job weeks ago, but... Hajime didn't give a fuck. He had spent time with you, and feelings developed from there. You were kind. You cared about everyone who came into your store equally. You'd close shop if a woman came in after being beaten by a John. When a young man came in wounded, you dropped everything to patch him up. You were a safe haven for women and gangsters alike. They knew they could come to you for a place to hide. He found himself unable to kill you. Whoever had put the hit out was wrong. He'd find them first.

You had no idea the thoughts that brewed in the spiky-haired man's head. He held the door open for you to slip in, then slipped inside himself and started driving.

The road turned to gravel as he drove into the hills of the prefecture. Your hand rested against the edge of your skirt, nerves making them shake a little. He turned his wrist up on the gear shift. "If you need to hold my hand or something." Instantly, you latched on to it, bringing it over to your lap, and grinned. The hitman couldn't help himself. He'd gone soft for you... His hand gripped your back. You relaxed, and eventually, your hand slipped out of his, but his hand didn't move from your thigh, gripping it slightly.

Finally, he stopped at a spot overlooking the city. It was secluded and beautiful tonight. His hand moved down your leg to your knee before moving back up gently, "I like you, Tsubaki. You know that, right?"

"I had an inkling. Does this mean I get to call you Hajime now?" You turn toward him full-body, shifting so your back was against the passenger side door, and his hand came up to rest on the back of your seat. "I like you too. I mean, I have for a while, and not just because you saved me before." You fiddled with your fingers, a look of shock coming over your face when Iwaizumi reached for your hand.

He lifted your right hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist, making you breathe out sharply. His green eyes traced your frame and finally found your face. "Can I kiss you?" The question hit your ears, and before your brain could stop you, you leaned forward to capture his lips in a kiss.

The kiss is hungry and rough. Teeth were clashing together as you finally break that tension you had both had between you two. You reached up to tug his hair, and you could feel his growl against your lips. "Fuck."

The windows fogged before you realized it, and he was pushing you against them, his hand wrapping around your neck to pull you closer to him. He was rough, but god did it feel good. His teeth tug at your lip before whispering, "Can I touch you, Tsubaki?" He presses his forehead against yours, his fingers tangled in your hair as you catch your breath.

"Yes. Touch me, Haji. Please."

The moment the please leaves your lips, he feels feral. His name dies on your lips as he palms a breast with one hand and slips the other one up your skirt resting on your thigh. The kiss was deepening as he swipes his tongue along the seam of your lips. Your gasp was all he needed. His hand moves to your cloth-covered cunt, before pulling back to whisper, "I want to fucking hear you moan."

And moan into his mouth you did. Gasping as he played with your clothed breasts, you wanted more.

The man above you is grinding his hip against your calf as he cages you in against the passenger seat. "Please, don't tease, please." You whisper as the kiss breaks, and he leans back to admire you for a moment. You're his prey here. With his big hands, he could snap your neck and be done with the job. Or he could give you pleasure. His hand lingering on your breast and the other between your legs told him what he wanted to do. He wanted to fuck you. Wanted to ruin you.

The hand between your legs found your hip clutching it slightly. "I want you. But I want it to be special. We shouldn't do this here." You let out a whine that he knew would be his undoing. "Hajime... I want to feel you inside of me. We can go back to my place if you want a bed. I just... Fuck me, tonight."

"Dummy." Iwaizumi whispered against your temple before capturing your lips against his. He slides his hand down to your cunt again. "I know how to satisfy you for now, at least until we get to your place and we make some choices." His large fingers brush against your panties before pushing the fabric to the side. He swallows your moans with kisses as he rubs your clit with his middle finger. He slides that same finger down until he gets to your center and pushes inside of you.

Your hips jolt, and you gasp as his mouth makes its way down your neck, leaving marks as he goes. "More, please. Hajime. Please."

He drives his middle finger into your cunt, grinning at the gasp that chokes from your lips. "Such a greedy little dummy." He adds another finger before he glances down to marvel at the way you suck his fingers in. The dirty and lewd noises were coming from your mouth as he fingers you. "This hand of mine taking you out? Making you dumb? Sweet, sweet little one." He feels your body shake involuntarily, your head rolling backward.

"That's it, baby. Let it go. Cum for me."

Your thighs are shaking as you cum with a gasp, his hand tightening on your throat to control the blood flow and how you were feeling. It was so good that a second one washed over you quickly.

Your vision finally colors again, and you watch him as he lifts his hand to his mouth, sticking each finger in one by one. "You taste so good, Tsubaki. Like my favorite candy."

You roll your eyes at him before shifting to press your body against the passenger side door. "Just drive to my place, and don't make illusions to me tasting like candy..." Iwaizumi shifted gears before chuckling. "I could say something else, but I thought candy suited you. You're sweet. I liked it. And so did you if the way you came was any indication."

The drive went on like that, him teasing you and you bantering it right back to him. When you arrived at your apartment, you instantly felt shy. Your state radiated off of you in waves as you stared up at the tall building. Iwaizumi's hand reached over to squeeze your thigh. "We don't have to do this tonight... I got you off; that’s what I wanted to do."

You looked up at him shaking your head before reaching for his hand and lacing his fingers with yours. "Come inside; I’ll get you some tea."

His voice reverberated in your brain as you both got out of the car, "I don't want tea, Tsubaki." I want you. Those words are unspoken as you both approach your door from the confined space of the elevator.

You fumbled with the keys, dropping them than picking them up again. Iwaizumi's hand rests on the small of your back to soothe your thoughts. "Do I make you anxious? It's not my goal, dummy." He's gentle as he brushes your cheek with careful fingers. He's treating you like glass as you both enter the apartment. Shoes fall off feet quickly as soon as the door closes.

You step backward into your apartment, leading him down the short hallway to your bedroom. He follows his hand resting on your shoulder, taking in the ease of your clothes. "God, you're so beautiful." He pushed your shoulder strap down your arm smiling as your tank top fell quickly. Your overshirt was already discarded when you entered your apartment. Your knees hit the bed, and you reach for his long sleeve shirt. "It's not fair if I get naked first, Hajime."

He pulls the shirt over his head with one arm in a swift movement and lets it fall to the floor. He steps closer so that his body can cage yours in against the bed. His knees were nudging your own apart slightly. "We're nowhere near even, Peaches."

Your fingers trace the patterns of his tattoos, running up his arms and across his chest. Iwaizumi lets you touch him like this, a cool grin curling upon his lips. "You like them?" Your fingers find a dragon wrapped in ivy; the teal creature struggles to the sky on his right arm. Tsubaki flowers bloom across his pec then the more traditional Yakuza tattoos catch your eye. You knew he was a part of a gang, but this was so detailed. You press your mouth to the flowers and nod. "They are beautiful. You are beautiful, Ha-" He cuts you off, catching your mouth with his and kissing you deeply.

The sensuality of the kiss makes your back arch practically into him. When you broke it to breathe, he's smiling down at you brushing your hair back with such careful calloused hands. "No one has ever called me beautiful before, Tsubaki-chan." He nibbles your bottom lip before lifting a hand to your chest. "Can I take all this off you? I want you."

There were moments of softness as your clothes fell away to skin. Iwaizumi’s rough hands roaming gently down your body until he got to your cunt again. You breathed in sharply as he touched you and felt your body react and arch toward him. "Hajime." You moaned as he captured your lips and reached for your hand to place it on his thick considerable cock.

Your delicate fingers wrapping around him caused his breath to catch in his throat. "Fuck, dummy."

You stroked him gently, rubbing your thumb over the slit on his cock as you did so. He caged you in from above as your feather-light touch caused a soft moan to escape his lips.

He hisses through his teeth as your foreheads touch, and you stroke him, your hand tightening a bit as you move it. "Tsubaki..." He whispers against your skin, dropping kisses against your shoulders, "That sweet hand of yours, it probably doesn't feel as good as your cunt. I want to do something for you, though."

He pulls you with him and rolls onto his back. He pulls your hips to his face roughly, his large hands cupping your ass as he did so. "I'll make you feel good, dummy. Just sit still and enjoy the ride." His teeth nicked your thighs as he pulls you closer to his mouth. "Hajime! Hey, wait. I don't want you to get hurt by me." He looked up at you from between your legs; he’s practically salivating as he says. "Oh, you little dummy. You won't hurt me. I want to make you feel good." He pressed his face to your center, smirking when he felt your thighs clench under his hands. "Sensitive, huh?" You squeal a little bit as he buries his face between your thighs.

You're drenched, and his tongue has you fisting his hair with the first stroke. He speaks against your cunt, something you can't quite hear, but it makes your body vibrate, "Mine." His fingers spread you wide tentative licks against everywhere but where you want him. He's not gentle. He eats you out like a starving man. Getting lost in your taste. You gasp and whine as your body arches against him. His nose brushes against your clit, and your nails dig into his arms. Fingers against the inked limbs.

You're gushing against his mouth as he tugs you against his face more. He hummed against your clit, smirking as your body arches and your full weight finally rests on his face. His tongue flattens against your cunt, as he finally lets his the fingers of his right-hand slip inside of you. "Cum, Tsubaki. Cum for me."

He sucks against your clit, his teeth grazing against it slightly. You gasped, hips bucking slightly. He chuckles as you tug his hair, "Hajime, I..." You came hard thighs locking around his ears as your body falls to his face. You're trying to catch your breath, body folding to the pillow. Hajime slips out from under you, rolling you over and pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. "You okay there, Peaches? You taste so good. I couldn't help myself." He reached for your cheek brushing your hair away from your face gently. "Such a pretty little thing."

Your fingers brush against his inked arms and chest softly. "Did these hurt?" You ask as you catch your breath. He doesn't seem as though he's going to move forward tonight. He's made you cum. It was all he wanted today unless you were up for more. "They hurt like hell. Mat- uh, my tattoo artist has a heavy hand." You trace the dragon as it rolls up his shoulder. "So... Now what?"

Iwaizumi rolls on top of you, nipping your neck, his sharp teeth making you jump. "Now, I'll fuck you. I'll fucking ruin you for anyone else." He looks up at you before taking your chin in his hands. "If you don't want this, let me know. We can stop right now." You leaned forward to catch his mouth, kissing him mid-sentence. "Fuck me, Hajime."

He groans against your mouth, moving to pin you against the bed. A growl slipped from his lips as he pressed you against the bed, he pushed his pants down and his boxers following as well. His cock bounced against his stomach, well-hung; you couldn't help but lick your lips. You noticed more tattoos that traveled down his legs as well. His golden skin is covered in beautiful black ink.

"You're beautiful." You whispered. Iwaizumi reaches for your hand before kissing the inside of your wrist. "You are. Now, lay back for me." You do so, and his body covers yours. He reaches between your legs, grinning down at you, "Such a wet little slut." He made sure to look into your eyes when he degraded you. He was checking to see if this was okay. "Please. Daddy..." His mouth dives into yours, his tongue licking generously into your lips. He lines his cock up to your entrance before pushing inside of you.

A whine escapes your lips. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, dummy. You feel so fucking good." You clutch his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. "Fucking hell." He caught your lips before pushing into your insides more. He bottomed out finally, your walls fluttering around him. Your plush velvet walls fluttered while he lifted his eyes to meet your own. "Are you cumming again? You're so tight." Spots developed in your vision as he ruts into you. His hips grind against your own, the angle of him lifting your hips, but pressing your chest down slightly to the bed made your back arch.

"Harder. Fuck me harder, Hajime."

His hand slips up your chest to your throat, wrapping it around it as he lowered his body to yours, his mouth against your ear. "You got it." He sets a rough pace, his hand squeezing around your neck to control the way your body felt for him. "So fucking tight." He groans as he shifts your hips to change the angle again. You cry out loudly as he continues to rut against you. The head of his cock nudges your cervix entrance, and you arch, a whine escaping your lips. He was stretching you out in the best ways; your entire body arches as you cum unexpectedly, eyes widening as he meets your gaze.

"Came already? Pretty slut. Daddy's turn."

He kisses your mouth before rolling you over, pressing his chest to your back as he presses inside of you again. You’re sensitive from your orgasm and fluttering around him again. He grins against your shoulder before moving his hips roughly against yours; his right hand slides from your hip to your mouth, right hand, and sticking two fingers between your lips, he grins. "Fuck, you're gorgeous like this. All fucked out on my cock. Your mouth open like this. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." He starts pulling his fingers from your lips and finding your clit to make you cum again.

He drives your head into the mattress, and you gasp the angle changes again. "Where do you want me to cum, Dummy?"

"Inside. Please, Daddy."

His green eyes met yours as you spoke, begging him to cum inside. He grabs you by the neck, pulling you up against his chest, and presses his mouth against your ear. "That's it, baby. That's it, so tight." As you cum again, he follows, groaning as he does. "Fuck, what a good girl. Good fucking girl." He presses kisses to your shoulders as your body collapses bonelessly in Hajime's arms. He gently lets your body move to the bed. He brushes a hand through your hair as he pulls out and watches as his cum slips out of your cunt slowly. He pushes it back in with his fingers before looking up at your face. "Let me clean you up and get you some water."

You groan softly before nodding. "Maybe two cups of water. Hajime, I don't think anyone's ever..." He grinned, pressing a kiss to your fingers. "I can tell. I'll be back. Towels?"

"The linen closet is outside the door. My cups are above the sink. Thank you."

Hajime leaves the room to grab what he needs to clean you up. Meanwhile, you sigh, trying to relax now that your sexual libido's been satiated. It was then you heard his phone go off—the ring tone indicating a text message. You reached for it, surprised when it opens up right away.

shittykawa: Well, is the job done?

Your eyes widen, quickly placing the phone back, unsure as to what he was talking about, but whatever it was, you didn't need to get involved. Hajime came back into the room, moving the damp towel up to your leg while holding a glass toward you in the other. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Hey, I think your phone went off." He continued cleaning you off, reaching for the object with a frown. "Shittykawa, it's not important. Now, do you want me to stay tonight?"

"Yes."

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” He kisses your cheek gently before grabbing his phone and getting up from the bed. You fell into a deep sleep as you waited for him to come back. Meanwhile, Iwaizumi stared out the window in your living room, calling Oikawa quickly. “Pick up, pick up.”

“Iwa-chan, what the fuck are you doing? Why isn’t she dead yet?”

“Listen, Shittykawa. It’s a bad hit. I’m going to kill whoever put it out on here. She’s an asset to the red light society.”

“Are you blinded by pussy? Iwa-chan. She’s Ushijima’s sister. She’s collateral for him. The guy who put the hit out wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because the amount of money we were paid wasn’t anything to sneeze at. Look, if you don’t kill her, another team might.”

“I don’t care. It’s a bad hit, Tōru. Please.”

“Fuck, you slept with her. Fine… We’ll come up with something… Fuck, Hajime. If she gets you killed, I’ll kill her myself.”

“She won’t. Now, good night…”

“Good night. Enjoy your fucking fuck.”

#iwaizumi smut #iwaizumi x reader #long fic is long sorry #my writing #iwaizumi hajime x reader

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criticizing-blogger · 4 years ago

Text

The Waitress

Pairing: Dean x reader

Warnings: (I feel like the first two should be warnings) mention of mary’s passing, the yellow eyed demon

Word count: 1199

The bell on the door chimed as a man with dark blond hair walked through the threshold. He stood in front of the entrance, hearing the soft click of the door when it closed as he looked around the small cafe. On his left were six booths lined up against the wall; the seats made of brown leather and the tables a mahogany colonial with condiments and napkins and a specials menu in the middle. On the right stood a wooden bar matching the table's color and a white countertop, with brown stools on one side and two waitresses on the other serving customers. Next to the waitresses, on the counter top, stood a chalkboard on a black stand with the coffee menu written on it.

He fixed his brown leather jacket before finding an empty table in the far corner of the building. There weren’t very many people here he gathered, granted, it was also very early in the morning. Normally he wouldn’t be up so early but the last case he worked got to him, having nightmares all night and waking up several times before he gave up on sleeping. He couldn’t imagine how he looked at the moment, but he knew he looked like he needed a pot of coffee or at least a few.

He took a seat and folded his hands on top of the table, leaning into his arms as he waited for a waitress. As he waited, his mind wandered into last night's case. It was heartbreaking. Three children waking up in their beds to find their mothers on fire on the ceiling in their bedrooms. Luckily none of the kids were killed but all three homes were burned to crisp. According to the cops, the houses had actual reasoning as to why all buildings were burned down. But Sam and Dean knew better, they found out it was a copycat demon. But no child should witness anybody like that or even go through the same thing Dean and his family went through.

Dean couldn’t get the images out of his head. Normally, he tried not to think about what happened when he was four years old, but having all those flashbacks from being a kid to catching the yellow eyed demon, brought back all those thoughts and emotions. The rage, the sadness, and even the hurt when his father made a deal with the demon to save his life. All the flashbacks that he tried so hard to push into the back of his mind came crawling back. All of that made the case much harder to work than he thought. But he still managed to do it.

Dean's thoughts were broken when someone cleared their throat, getting the man’s attention. He looked up to see a woman with (h/c) hair in a bun with strands sticking out and soft, round (e/c) eyes. She wore a blue and white plaid waitress dress and blue flats to match. Her hair in a bun with multiple strands sticking out showing she was rushing late. Dean could hear her trying not to breathe so heavily. She smiled as she looked at him, a notepad and pen in her hands. “Hello, sir. I’m sorry for the wait. May I take your order?”

Dean didn’t realize he was staring at her alluring until she loudly spoke. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Oh, uh. Sorry. What did you say?”

“May I take your order?” she replied, giving him a kind smile.

“Just coffee, black.”

She nods letting him know she’d be back with his drink in a few moments. When she got to behind the bar counter, at the end away from the customers already sitting there, her hands displayed against it as she slowly breathed in and out. Her chest hurt from waking up late and rushing to get out the door, causing her to lose her breath. The woman smoothed out her hair and clothes before pouring a fresh cup of black coffee into a plain white mug.

Before the waitress would give him his caffeine, she went into the cafe’s kitchen and grabbed a slice of fresh, warm apple pie. She thought the man would need something to eat instead of drinking a lot of caffeine on an empty stomach. It seems like he’s been through a lot and thought it would be nice to give him some warm pie. She stuck a slice on a white ceramic plate and grabbed the cup and walked over to his table. She set it down in front of him and with a small, friendly smile, she sat across from the man. “Thought you would like something to eat. It just came out of the oven. You seem like a pie kind of guy so I thought you could use a slice.”

He knew he needed a good slice of pie and fresh coffee so he wasn’t even gonna put in the effort to argue. Especially not with a cute girl, one that brought him his favorite thing. He smiled at her as a thanks and dug into the food. He moaned in delight as the first warm bite; eyes rolling into the back of his head. She giggled at his actions causing him to quickly swallow his bite and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was probably a little red. “Sorry, it's good pie.”

“Glad you like it. It’s the owner’s recipe. She’s been baking pies since 1940.” the waitress spoke. “What’s your name?”

Her question caused the man to look up at her. “Huh?”

“Your name. What is it?”

He weighed his options for a minute debating on whether he should give her an alias or his actual name. “Dean. Your’s?”

“(Y/n).”

“Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

(Y/n) smiles as she feels her face heat up. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

Dean winks at her. “Only the ones I like.”

She laughed out loud as he joined in. “When do you get off of work?”

“At seven,” she replies.

“I’ll see you then.”

Dean grabs out money from his wallet and lays it on the table before winking at her one last time before walking out of the building. She watched as he walked out the door and got into his ‘67 black Chevrolet impala and drove out of the parking lot leaving a trail of dust behind. Her face felt hot. No doubt it was red. Taking up an offer from a man she doesn’t know, except for his name, seems like a really bad idea but something about him caught her attention. She needed what it was about him that caused her to give all her attention to him.

The bell on the door chimed breaking her out of her thoughts. She looked around and saw customers start to pile in. The woman didn’t realize he had finished his breakfast while she cleaned the table off. The plate and cup was empty she didn’t realize as she went on with her soon to be busy day, a smile painting her face. Excitement built up inside her. She couldn’t wait for tonight.

___________________________________________

A/N: New story coming out soon. Keep a look out! Down below is what it is about.

Sam and Dean arrive in a small, snowy Minnesota town. Strange occurrences had been happening. Little men had been seen murdering an employee and walk out of the store with tools in their hands. But where did they come from? And why were they murdering? As the Winchesters figure out whats going on, a woman Dean’s been talking to gets kidnapped and for a deal, the men who stole tools make a deal. Stop interfering the the little men’s plan and they’ll give them the girl back. But Sam and Dean don’t stop and unfortunately, the boys end up getting kidnapped. How will they survive? Will they be able to save Dean’s woman? What the hell is going on?

#oneshot #dean winchester #dean #supernatural #imagine #supernatural fluff #supernatural one shot #supernatural imagine #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader

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maandags · 5 years ago

Text

a tune not quite forgotten (John Shelby x reader)

ITS THE DAY LADS

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Summary: You did something stupid--something that took your feelings and threw them in a blender--and now you have to try and sort your life back out.

Word count: 8.6K

Genre: angst/fluff but this time i think i did not do a horrible job balancing out the angst and the fluff

Notes: masterlist - my dudes........ today is the birthday of my lovely lovely LOVELY girl Aticus over @panda-noosh !! man i love you so much!! you mean the absolute world to me; i couldn’t even begin to describe all the ways you’ve helped me through bad days and made me laugh and cry and yell about my godchildren and risk my ass by texting you in class. i had SUCH a hard time not giving you updates on this fic--especially since you were the one that got me into peaky blinders in the first place--and i caught myself multiple times already typing out a message and then going “wait. no” and backspacing everything lololol. I want you to know how much you truly mean to me, and suddenly i can’t use words eloquently anymore. so just read the damn fic and have a fabulous day. xx from your bitch Tay :’)

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The last person you'd expected to show up on your doorstep at four in the afternoon was John Shelby, and yet there he was.

You almost shut the door on him, but then realised that would probably be a bad idea, as he was a part of the most powerful family in the whole of Birmingham. So you folded your arms across your chest and raised your brows, waiting for him to explain the cause of his visit.

He looked at you, the cap on his head slightly shadowing his face. "Hullo."

You gave a terse nod, not really trusting yourself to speak. John glanced behind you and coughed. "Can I come in?"

"No."

Maybe you were being unfair, but you were really not in the mood to talk to him. You planned to let him know. "I have stuff to do. What do you want?"

The fact that you were able to get away with talking to John like that was due only to the fact that you had known each other since you were kids–that you'd been friends since you were kids. And now you were angry with him, and you were done with always letting him have his way.

John stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Just wanted to see if you were okay, I guess."

You scoffed, managed to cover it up with a cough. So he had just wanted to see if you were okay. In that case, every second he spent in front of you was a second wasted, and his very presence was aggravating you more than you cared to admit. "I'm fine, thank you very much. I don't need you checking up on me like I'm on my fucking death bed or something."

You pulled the door to your house shut behind you and turned the key. You didn't know where you wanted to go. Maybe you'd stop by Rosetta's, two blocks away. If you were lucky, Rosetta herself would be there and she'd pour you a glass of whiskey and tut when you downed it in one go.

"Y/N–"

You knew what he was going to say. What he was going to bring up. And frankly, you weren't ready for it yet. You didn't want to think about it, didn't want to face the truth of the situation. Because it would hurt even more than it already did, and you didn't need that right now. When you had calmed down a bit, you would go to him yourself and you'd say, It's fine. I understand. It's okay.

When really, of course, it wasn't.

"Not now, John. Please, just–not right now."

And you walked away, ignoring the fact that you hadn't brought a coat with you and the wind was biting at your skin and carding its icy fingers through your hair, and if it was going to rain tonight you were probably going to catch a cold. But it was okay. The freezing air shook you awake when you had been foggy a moment before, and you were glad for it.

You brought your shoulders up to your ears, squinting to protect your eyes from the wind as you made your way to Rosetta's. You weren't surprised–though you were disappointed–when your vision blurred with tears.

Walking into the warmth of Rosetta's cosy pub was like walking into heaven when you opened the door and let yourself in. Behind the bar stood the curvy form of Rosetta herself, and you smiled at her cooing when she spotted you. "Oh, love, do come in. It's been ages since I've seen your pretty face!"

Rosetta called everyone pretty. It was one of the many reasons you loved her. You walked up to the counter and pulled a stool towards you, climbing on it and rubbing your hands together to get some feeling back into them.

"What'll you be havin', sweetie?"

You looked up at her blearily. "Something that'll warm me up."

She raised a perfectly shaped brow. "Little early for that, ain't it?" But one look from you shut her up, and she drew a big long sigh as she poured you a glass.

The first sip brought some warmth into your chest. The second gave you back the feeling in your hands, and then you downed the drink and waited for the alcohol to take full effect and loosen you up.

"You're looking like shit," Rosie remarked subtly, and you glared as you toyed with the rim of the glass. She was right, though; you had barely slept last night and you were fairly sure your hair hadn't seen a brush in two days.

"I'm feeling like shit," you amended finally, plopping your elbows on the counter and resting your chin in your palms, watching Rosie bustle around and serve the few other customers who'd already installed themselves at a table or at the bar. There was a guy a few seats on your right who was stealing not-so-subtle glances at Rosie's cleavage and posterior as she twisted and turned, and you had half a mind to kick him off his chair. It was like watching someone hound after your mother, because Rosie had been more of a parent to you than either of yours had been.

"Poor you," she said, patting your cheek and turning around to serve some other man who was tapping his glass on the shiny wood countertop. You narrowed your eyes, the old protectiveness rising up again in the back of your throat.

It wasn't busy yet, so after Rosie had satisfied her small clientèle she turned back to you, refilled your glass and grabbed a pint of her own. "So. Tell me about what's got you in such a mood."

You swirled the drink around in your glass and said, "Nothing," which was untrue, of course, and Rosie swatted you on the back of your head to show that she wasn't impressed.

"I didn't practically raise you since your tenth birthday for you to lie to me like that," she sniffed, and you groaned.

"It's just–I'm really fucking stupid sometimes. And I do... I do stupid things a lot. And, you know. Then I wake up the next day and realise I've been really, really stupid again. And it makes me feel. Like. Shit." You tapped the counter with the bottom of your glass for emphasis.

Rosie sighed, gave your cheek a tap. "Oh, love. You never were great at sorting out your feelings, eh?"

You felt your neck and ears heat up, and your eyes widened. "I never–I didn't say–"

She threw her head back, brushing her long mane of curls over her shoulder. Her brown hair was streaked with grey, but on her it looked ethereal. No wonder nobody could ever keep their eyes off her. "You didn't say, but I know you, don't I?"

She did. She and her pub had been more of a home to you than your own had been, and you'd practically grown up hanging from her skirts. When you were eleven, she'd let you help out with washing the dishes sometimes, and not long after you'd met John, whom she also immediately took under her wing.

You had a closer bond with Rosie than John did, but she loved him just the same, letting him play with you between the tables. Rosetta's became a second home to you before you'd even left your old one.

She then plunked down her glass, and cocked her head, and gasped, and you jumped, thinking she'd seen a man get murdered through the window–at least. But she was looking at you, and said, "Is it John?" And her eyes were wide, and you scolded yourself internally, because Rosie would not have been fazed in the slightest if she'd seen a man get murdered in front of her pub.

You buried your face in your hands, which was close enough to a confession for her and she let out a "Ha!"

Then she got called away by some prick who wanted a refill, and as she grabbed a bottle he leaned forward and pinched her butt, and she immediately whipped around and loudly cussed him out before telling him to Get the fuck out of here and don't you have the balls to show your fucking face again. You really loved Rosie.

"Love," she said a minute later as if nothing had happened, "I want you to tell me what's happened right now."

You sighed, but you did. You told her about the inauguration of the new and improved Garrison, and how John had invited you–of course he had, you were his best friend–and how, after a couple of glasses and songs and teasing words mumbled from slightly-parted mouths he'd pulled you into a corner and kissed you.

It had been sloppy and heated and kind of a mess, to be honest, your hands wandering, wanting to feel every inch of the other's body and explore after years of built-up tension, and yet it had been the very best few moments of your entire worthless life, leaving you lightheaded and flushed a deep crimson.

Then, of course, he'd pulled away for air, and you'd laughed, chest filling for the first time in years–maybe ever–and he'd mumbled, "Wait here," and squeezed your hand before disappearing into the crowd.

And you had waited. You'd waited for what felt like hours, but he'd never returned.

So you'd left. Your clothes were only slightly dishevelled, after all, and when you were sure you could walk home without collapsing you packed your shit and pushed out of the pub. But that hadn't been the worst of it; of course it hadn't. For when you left, you saw John on the other side of the glass panel. Laughing. A drink in his hand, talking with Tommy and Arthur. He never looked at you once.

"I knew what I was getting into," you told Rosie, your arms now crossed on top of the counter and your shoulders drawn up to your ears. "I mean–John hooks up with seven girls a night. I just–I thought–"

"–that it'd be different? Because it's you?"

You looked at her, wondering how she always managed to gauge exactly how you felt and put it into words as perfectly as she did. She looked at you with her head slightly tilted and pity in her eyes, pity and understanding and compassion which left you even more embarrassed and wanting to sink into the ground.

"Stupid, right?" you said, maybe a little too loudly, and you knocked back what was left of your drink. "So stupid."

Rosie took your glass from your limp fingers and put it in the sink. A smart move, you pondered as you plopped your chin back onto the palms of your hands; you didn't know if you could have stopped yourself from just drinking your sorrows away. "Not stupid. A little... careless, maybe. But you're young and you're supposed to be careless and not give a fuck about anything." She wiped her hands on her apron. "So no, I don't think you're stupid."

You rubbed a hand down your face, squeezing your eyes shut. "Rosie. What do I do?"

She was silent for a moment as she washed your glass and dried it, keeping her eyes on a spot over your shoulder. Her teeth nipped at her bottom lip. "John's a Shelby boy, Y/N," she said. "I don't know in how much he takes after his father when it comes to love–or his brothers. I don't know to what extent he can love, or if he just wants a good fuck before discarding you like an old sock." Though you'd expected them to a certain extent, the words still stung, and you tried to hide your wince. "But I do know you. And I know you love him, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not–" you didn't– "and I figure John loves you in his own way. Was a time when you were best mates."

Yeah.

With that, you found that you had enough of Rosie's wisdom for the day. Really, she hadn't given you much advice to what you should do–she had helped you see some things a little more clearly, and she'd leave you to decide how you wanted to handle things on your own. You loved her for it, though it could be infuriating.

She smiled and went back to her work. Some more men had walked in and were clamoring for her attention, and she sauntered over to them, hips swaying. How she managed to keep the lot of them in check when they were drunk, you had never quite grasped, though you knew she kept a gun strapped to her thigh for when things got a little too rowdy for her taste.

Then you stood up, straightened your shirt and slipped behind the bar. You felt around in a low drawer until you found an apron and tied it on, shrugging when Rosie shot you a questioning look. "I need to get my head on straight. A few nights' work would do me good."

She gave a sort of half-hearted headshake, and you rolled your eyes as you turned to your first customer.

"You're not Rosie," the man said, frowning as he tried to focus onto your face, his eyes hazy, and his breath smelling of alcohol.

You shrugged. You felt like you'd made a good choice; two weeks or so of working alongside Rosie could help you get your head on straight. "You can get served by me or you can get the fuck out of the pub, mate."

It wasn't your first night behind the bar.

Things went smoothly, considering you'd only had to deal with a couple more such comments–usually from already-drunk guys who were here probably for the sole reason to catch a glance at Rosetta herself–and there was only a single fistfight you had to break up. After a few days, people started to get used to you, and you started to notice the curious once-overs you were receiving from younger clientèle and older alike.

You smiled. You winked, you treated the customers to a slightly-more-unbuttoned shirt than was strictly appropriate, you responded to flirty comments with witty quips of your own. And it did help. It did distract you from John and everything that had happened that night, but only while you were behind the bar and you had to keep your head cool at all times. Once you got home, you would get hit by everything again in full force, and you would feel bitter and hurt once more.

So you started to work longer days, coming in at noon and getting home at two, three, four A.M. You barely had any time to do anything bar sleep and eat, when you felt like it. You didn't see any of your friends unless they stopped by Rosetta's by coincidence, and you'd have a brief chat, but then you'd get called away by other customers and they would be gone when you got back.

It didn't bother you. Not really. You had Rosie, and the occasional late-night make-out session with whoever had grabbed your attention that night. It never went much further than that, though–and you didn't want it to.

The first Blinders showed up three weeks after you started working there again.

Isiah Jesus and Finn Shelby waltzed into Rosetta's like they owned the place, and Rosie grabbed their attention immediately as she cooed and pinched their cheeks, and they didn't look away from her for a solid minute before they even noticed there was someone else behind the bar. That someone else being you.

"Y/N! Hey," said Finn, looking only mildly surprised to see you here. Isiah and he took their seats at the bar, leaning their elbows on the shiny surface. Isiah was a little red in the face, and you suspected it was not entirely unrelated to the fact that Rosie had just spent a minute fawning over them in all her curvy glory.

You nodded at Finn and slid him and Isiah glasses with their drinks of choice. It wasn't the first time you'd been behind the bar for them, and though that had been a while ago, the Peaky Blinders weren't very keen on variety when it came to drink. They mostly wanted to get drunk as quick as possible and would ask for the drink that had the highest alcohol content. This time was no different, and if it was, they didn't mention it.

"Haven't seen you around in a right while," said Finn after a swig. He sat back in his seat and stretched, cracking the joints in his arms and neck. "You should pop by one of these days. John's been a real pain in the arse last few weeks."

You stiffened, if only slightly. You told yourself it was only because you had tried your best not to think of him since the night you took up working at Rosetta's again, and that hearing Finn talk about him so casually was just a small slap in the face.

"I'm not his fucking nanny, am I?" you muttered, wiping your hands on your apron and leaning your hips against the bartop. "He'll get over it."

"He's been asking about you, you know," Isiah piped up from behind his own glass, grin forming on his lips.

You glared at him and folded your arms over your chest. "I've been here. At the place I basically grew up in. John and I spent our fucking childhood running around in this very pub, so if he didn't think of looking here for me he must not be that keen on finding me." You yanked out a fresh cloth and turned to the sink to dry any glasses that maybe sat there. There weren't, but you snatched one off a shelf anyway and began to polish it, just to give your hands something to do.

That was that about that. Isiah raised a brow and leaned over, mumbled something for Finn to hear while not being subtle at all about it, and you narrowed your eyes at him, pursing your lips and whirling around to further emphasize your unwillingness to talk about it.

"Ay. Y/N. Y/N."

You sighed, deeply and dramatically, but turned with the most unimpressed look on your face you could possibly manage. "What, dear?"

"Did John tell you about the event at the Garrison next month?"

"I haven't seen John in weeks, Isiah."

"Well, Tommy's throwing this huge party. There's gonna be musicians and shit. Violins and flutes and fucking trumpets and fuck-if-I-know what else."

You waited for the rest, and when it didn't come, you said, "So what?"

"You should come, is what! John's always going on about your piano skills. Real fucking annoying, I'll tell you that; I never took him for a sentimental."

John and sentimental. There's two words that don't belong in the same sentence. You almost laughed. Shaking your head, you said, "I haven't touched my piano in years. I don't even know if I can still play." But you subconsciously flexed your fingers, and started tapping a rhythm on your thigh.

It had been a while since you'd played–but you guessed you could never really unlearn it. You were out of practice, sure, but for the first time in a while you missed it.

The thing was that playing reminded you of John.

You'd tried to shut him out by banning everything that had the slightest connection to him. Playing the piano was one of those things, but you now thought you may have been a little hasty in cutting it out of your life. After all, you had been playing long before you'd even met John.

"I don't think I'll be able to make it," you said half-apologetically.

Finn blew a raspberry. You side-eyed him, figuring this probably wasn't his first drink of the afternoon. "That's such horseshit. Why not?"

You folded your arms. "I'm busy. With work. Here."

"And Rosetta can't give you a single night off?"

You cast a look at Rosie, who hadn't heard the conversation but picked up her name and spun around. "Hm?"

"There's a party at the Garrison next month. Y/N says you won't let them go," said Finn.

You widened your eyes slightly at her, hoping with your entire soul she'd understand the message you were trying to communicate to her through your gaze. She gave a slight frown, but her eyes grew understanding when she saw the look on your face.

"It's busy as all fuck on Saturdays, you know. Just because you've never had work a day in your miserable little life doesn't mean you can just pull other people from theirs," she said sharply, and internally you breathed a little sigh of relief.

Isiah and Finn started protesting–the both of them struggling to find their words, because they had quite a lot of alcohol in their system at that point, and Rosie was glaring at them with an intensity in her eye that would have any other man weak in the knees. You smiled and shook your head, shuffling backwards into the shadows and getting back to work.

Isiah and Finn left after a while, and you sighed in relief as you watched them go. Then Rosie smacked you upside the head and you yelped. "The fuck's that for?"

"For me having to save your ass back there. You can't run from this forever, you shit."

You frowned and rubbed the spot where her palm had connected with your skull. "Sure I can."

Rosie gave a sharp exhale and leaned over to grab a bottle of whiskey. "I mean, of course you can. If you give it little enough thought. I don't know if that's what you want, though."

"Who cares about what I want? Last time I gave into what I wanted, I was ditched in the middle of a party," you hissed. "It's not worth it. It's not worth the trouble."

It wasn't. It absolutely wasn't, and you scrubbed a dirty tumbler with vigor and trembling fingers until it shone like a freshly-polished crystal. "I won't go," you added.

"I know you won't. You don't have to. But maybe go talk to him," she said.

You gave a bitter smile and studied your reflection in the now-clean glass as you dried it. "John's a Shelby boy, Rosie." You plopped the glass on its shelf. "Shelby boys don't do talking."

You woke up at eight A.M. and, yawning, made your way to your kitchen.

Rubbing your eyes and temples, you filled a glass with water and drank it, then you filled it again and drank that too. You had come home at three last night. Five hours of sleep had you feeling woozy and a little unsteady on your feet, and the sleep you did get had been riddled with nightmares and restlessness. Because you knew you weren't going to get any more rest, you figured you might as well stay awake.

You sat at your kitchen table and sipped at your water, looking out of the window and thinking of nothing. Nothing. Not even John plagued your tired mind right now, and as you stretched your eye was drawn to the slightly-ajar door that led to your living room. Through the opening, you only just barely made out a strip of dusty brown wood.

It was your piano, your old piano that you'd learned yourself to play on when you were just a kid and needed the distraction. It started like that–a distraction. The music meant you wouldn't have to listen to the shouting in the kitchen. It became the only reason you would even play at all–to distract yourself, to forget about all the horrible things happening around you and just be.

Never had you felt a particular connection to the thing or the music it made. It was a tool, something you used to escape. It got to the point where you couldn't even look at it without cringing back; where you couldn't even bear to think about the feeling of the keys beneath your fingers until the shouts would start up again and they would start to itch.

You'd told John about this when he finally asked why you had a piano in your house if no one ever played it. He'd frowned and sat down in front of it and pressed down on a key, then two, then three, then plunking keys left and right and grinning like an idiot. He'd looked up at you and you'd rolled your eyes and said, Not like that, you moron, and you'd shoved him off the stool and placed your own fingers upon the keys.

The tune you played was simple but melodic. A little melancholy and sad, perhaps. John had stood and watched and listened and, when you dropped your hands to your lap and looked away because the melody had jarred unpleasant memories–though your parents had been gone for over a year (your father died of pneumonia, and your mother, unable to handle the loss, left Small Heath for a cottage in the hills) and you didn't miss them–he'd clapped. Then he'd said he felt like getting a drink and you'd rolled your eyes and scolded him, calling him all sorts of names, the bad memories buried once more.

You now made your way over to the piano and studied the dust it'd gathered over the years you hadn't touched it. Ran your finger over its surface and swept up a fine layer of dust. Then you lifted the fall board and looked at the keys, still pristine and ivory white despite their age. You pressed a single key.

The note rang out and you winced at how out of tune it was. It made sense, since the last tuning had been somewhere around two or three years ago. You opened up the case and peered down. Maybe you could get it tuned before going to work at twelve. You had some time.

Suddenly wide awake, you freshened up and quickly wolfed down a sandwich, after which you returned to the piano and set your hands on your hips. From somewhere up in the attic you'd unearthed your tuning kit and, after a quick refresher course from the handbook included in it, you went to work.

It was a slow process–even slower since you hadn't done it in years. But after a handful of strings the tuning came easier and you were pleased to note that your hearing was sharp as ever and recognised when the note was right. After about three hours, the piano was completely tuned again and you sat back, admiring your work. Of course, the piano didn't look much different from the outside, save for the fact that you'd dusted it and it now gleamed in the sunlight. You were covered in filth, but the satisfaction settled deep in your chest and you rubbed a spot of grime on your wrist. You were out of time to play–you had to take a shower and get to work–but the very act of cleaning and tuning the old thing had you feeling a bit better. Like you were finally starting to take control of things.

Over the weeks, you'd gotten used to the comments thrown at you over the bar. You told yourself it was the alcohol speaking; not the people themselves, though you knew some assholes who had tried to get into your pants even outside of business hours. You had learned to brush off the words, pay no mind to them and just serve men the drinks they asked for.

Rosie, sometimes, would stare a particularly disruptive guy down until he either relented and made off like a dog with its tail between its legs, or got up, riled up and ready to fight, and would be decked in the jaw by some other poor drunkard before he could make a single move. Rosie had the favour of the people, and she never hesitated to use it to her advantage.

Tonight was different.

You had been tense and jittery all morning–which was probably also due to the amount of coffee you'd drunk to stay awake–and you knew you would not be able to handle much derogatory comments tonight, whether they were directed at you or Rosie. You told her so, wringing your hands and averting your gaze.

Rosie tutted and lifted your chin with her index finger. "Now what's going on with you today, eh?"

You pulled away from her grip. "Nothing. I'm just–I don't know. Not feeling well. I don't trust myself to not commit murder if I have to hear one more remark about my ass–or yours, for that matter."

"So you're gonna leave?"

"No, I was thinking maybe I could switch places with Joe for a night?"

Joe was one of the boys who worked round the back of the pub. He was nice enough, and though he hadn't worked behind the bar yet you could show him around and help him out for the afternoon, until the busy hours started to strike.

"It'll just be for a single night, Rosie," you pleaded when she didn't look convinced. "I'll quickly teach him how to work the bar and he'll be fine."

"All right," she conceded. "One night."

That evening, you spent your time in the back room, stacking crates of bottles and glasses and, for some reason, a single crate of limes. There wasn't much for you to do, but every once in a while Joe would call for you to bring him a fresh bottle of some drink or another, and you would do it before sitting back down again.

It got a little boring after a while, but it was nice to leave the busy pub for once and quietly sit in the back room, leaning against the wall with your eyes closed. It was hard not to doze off, especially since you were already exhausted.

Then there was a bang against the back door, and you started. You got up from your chair and crept towards the door, scanning the room for something to use as a weapon. You guessed you could always smash a bottle over the intruder's head, but then your eyes landed on a metal rod that stood half-hidden in a corner. You gripped it, then flattened yourself against the wall next to the door and waited.

Another bang, louder this time. More impatient. Part of you wanted to yell, "Occupied!" just to see if that would do anything, but you bit your tongue. With a single finger you unhooked the latch keeping the door locked and said, "Come in!"

The door opened and you raised your metal rod and the intruder saw you, then screamed and jumped back. Their scream startled you, and you stiffened, then lowered your rod onto the ground with a clang and scoffed.

It was a kid. A kid, probably not much older than thirteen, and he was staring up at you with big, wide eyes set in a face that was stark white beneath streaks of grime. His eyes darted around the room, and then finally settled on you and he asked in a high-pitched voice, "Where's Joe?"

You folded your arms. You were aware that the rusty metal rod at your side didn't help to make you look any less threatening, but at the moment you didn't care and felt nothing but slightly irritated. "Joe's not here. I am, though. What d'you want?"

The kid looked slightly panicked, now. "Is Joe here?"

You tilted your head. "I'm here. You can say whatever you gotta say to me. Why were you lurking at our back door at ten in the evening, eh? Don't you have a curfew?"

The boy wrung his hands and cast his eyes to the floor. "Can you go get Joe, please?"

Your eyebrow shot up. "Oh, please, is it? What is it you need Joe for? Hey, kid," you hissed, grabbing onto his arm and forcing him to look at you. "I could have you thrown out any second. I'm giving you the chance to tell me what's going on–"

"Y/N, Y/N, it's fine, it's okay, don't hurt him," comes Joe's hurried voice from behind you.

You whip around. "You're supposed to be working!"

"A little hard to do when all I hear's a fucking blood-curdling scream coming from the back room, Y/N."

You scowled. He had you there. "You know this kid?"

Joe nods, tiredly. "He's my brother. What's going on?" That last question was directed at the kid, and you let him go. He scuttled over to Joe and started speaking to him in hushed tones and you went out into the pub, partly to give them some privacy and partly to see how Rosie was doing.

When she saw you, she raised her eyebrows. "You look horrible."

You felt pretty horrible. Not only had you just almost crushed a kid's skull with an improvised metal baseball bat, but you'd been short-tempered and curt with him even after he no longer posed a threat. In fact, you'd been short-tempered all day, and you suspected it was mostly because of your lack of sleep.

In a small voice you asked, "Can I go home?"

She nodded, and you smiled in thanks and told her to say sorry to Joe and his brother from you. She assured you she would, then shooed you out of the pub and demanded you get some rest.

When you got home, you didn't even bother taking off your clothes as you crashed onto your bed and closed your eyes.

The tune your fingers sought out as if on instinct was quite the same as the one you'd played for John, all those years ago. One of the first pieces you'd ever taught yourself. There was never any sheet music in the house except for your grandmother's old books, and you couldn't afford a teacher, so progress was slow–but after a few years you got the hang of it and started to make up your own pieces. This melody was one of them.

You were surprised at how fast you seemed to pick up the songs after not having played them for years. You spent a few hours just tapping away at the keys, and for the first time you felt something as you played.

Not the dread or the bitterness that usually came with the perusing of the keys. Not the anger that would well up and make you punch down harder than intended, and not even the sadness that would take you over every time you were woken up from screams in the night, and you'd know you wouldn't be able to go back to sleep unless you played.

Now you felt something like happiness. Something like contentment as you pressed down on key after key and listened to the notes ring out, untainted by the bitter screams of anger. It was nice. It made you feel light. The last note pinged, hung in the air for a moment after you'd let go of the key. You stayed put on the stool, basking in the feeling for a little longer.

That's how you spent the following weeks. Go to work, go to sleep, wake up, play the piano and go back to work. You started to feel better and better every time you played, because you were getting better with the hours of practice. And you were changing.

You were hearing music everywhere now. In the clip clopping of horses carrying their riders around Small Heath; in the shouting and giggling of children playing in the streets; in the whistling of the wind weaving itself between the buildings; in the bell that rang when you opened the door to Rosetta's pub. And it felt good. It felt good to pick up on melodies you'd never paid attention to before, being able to appreciate the music of life as it bubbled and sizzled all around you.

You hadn't felt this good in a long time.

The only thing that still bothered you–that you just weren't able to get out of your head–was, of course, John Shelby. Because the more you thought about it, the more pissed off you grew.

Sure, he was a Shelby. Sure, Shelbys were basically guaranteed VIP spots in Hell. But you had been his best friend for years. It didn't make sense. And if he had faked it–if everything had been a joke on you, after all–then he should have been able to come talk to you. He would have brushed it off and acted as if nothing had happened.

But he was avoiding you. He was purposefully avoiding you, you were sure of it. You had seen Isiah and Finn a couple more times since they'd invited you to the Garrison concert, you had come across Arthur and Michael twice. You'd even seen Tommy, and had a brief chat with him outside his office. Ada regularly had a drink a Rosetta's, for she was just as fond of the woman as you were. Practically the only Shelby you hadn't heard of in months was John.

The concert was in two days. And though you'd already said you wouldn't go–you'd said you wouldn't go so you wouldn't go–you felt you were itching to attend, if just to see John and be done with this entire situation once and for all. Because you knew he would be there, and he wouldn't expect you to come. Nothing was holding you back from going–except your own stubbornness and mixed feelings.

Because you wanted to get rid of the confusion permanently riddling your mind. You wanted an explanation for the way he'd acted–for the way he was acting–because it was so unlike him and weird.

But you also were reluctant to face him, for the exact same reasons. The doubt was settling in, seeping through the cracks in your composure and burrowing deep into your bones; Did you ever really know him, after all? The thought–the mere idea that the last fifteen years of your life were nothing but a lie, spent with someone who never cared for you at all–made you sick, and had you draw back at the last second.

You were feeling good. Why couldn't you just let this go and feel good?

But you knew that you wouldn't ever be truly free of the thoughts and the doubts if you didn't take this chance to see him. So, really, no matter what you said, the choice of whether or not you'd go was already made.

Everyone was dressed so classy–the men in shiny three-piece suits and ties and shoes polished until they glittered like mirrors, and the women in beautiful shimmering dresses in all sorts of colours, their hair done up and decorated with headdresses matching their skirts. You felt a little underdressed in your plain dark blue outfit. Your shoes you'd borrowed from your friend, and you had done nothing to your hair but brush it. You guessed people would take you for a waiter, charged to log around balancing trays with flutes of champagne in your palm. You wouldn't blame them.

In the middle of the Garrison was a podium. It wasn't that big, but there were still around a dozen chairs arranged in a half-circle formation sat on it–and something that grabbed your attention right of the bat: a glossy black grand piano. In one corner you spotted a small gathering of men and women in black and white, surrounded by instrument cases. You went out on a limb and assumed they were the orchestra supposed to perform later that evening.

You tried not to look like you were searching for someone. You tried not to search for that particular someone, but involuntarily your eyes were drawn to scan the faces meddling in the crowd around you. Some of the people, you recognised. Most, you didn't. Some of them cast you estranged looks, eyes swiftly taking in your rather simple clothes and stiff movement as you waded through the crowd much in the same way a penguin would wade through a herd of walrus; not quite sure if they'll make it through unscathed.

Then you spotted two familiar figures and you gave a little sigh of relief.

When Isiah spotted you, he spread his arms wide–spilling a little champagne over the rim of his glass as he did so–and hooted. You cringed at the sheer volume of his shout, eyes darting around, sure everyone would turn and stare, but apparently this was normal, as only two or three people glanced around and then went back to their own conversations. You folded your arms across your chest and walked up to him, nodding at Finn who, as always, stood next to him.

"So you changed your mind, eh?" said Isiah when you were in non-shouting earshot.

You nodded.

"Was it my irresistible charm that did it?" Finn chimed in, hooking an arm around Isiah's neck.

You shot him a slightly disgusted look. "How are you already drunk? The party hasn't even properly started!"

"Don't mind him," said Isiah, trying to pry Finn's arm off of him. "They're not here for us, you twat," he yelled in Finn's ear. You felt your cheeks colour.

Then Tommy stepped onto the little podium and said loudly, "Ladies and gentlemen..." His speech was not unlike the others you'd heard from him; Thank you so much for coming and I am so glad to be surrounded by such wonderful people and Donate to my company, but he pronounced the words eloquently and raised a round of applause when he finished. You clapped along, out of politeness mostly, when you finally spotted him, half-hidden behind his brother.

You weren't gonna lie: John looked good, and it was more of a shock to see him than you'd originally anticipated. All of your breath left you in one fell swoop, and for a moment nothing existed but you and him–but that lasted only a split second, and his attention was fixated on Tommy. He didn't know you were even here, and your simple, dark clothes enabled you to melt into the shadows. You could not have been more inconspicuous if you tried.

You allowed yourself only a moment of looking at him. Just the time to catch your breath. Just the time to get over the initial shock, the time to regain your footing and make sure your knees wouldn't buckle beneath you.

You drew a breath, focused back on Tommy. He was saying something. He was saying that everyone should please gain their seats and prepare for the performance to begin. You tried to shuffle your way through the crowd to get closer to John, hoping to talk to him before the concert, but the crowd is too thick and everyone was sitting down and if you didn't sit down right this instant he would see you. So you reluctantly dropped into a seat in the back. If you looked straight ahead, over the shoulders of the people sitting in front of you, and tilted your head just like so you could see him, sitting in the front row in between Tommy and Finn.

The small orchestra started to play, and it was dead silent. Everyone was entranced by the melody, the harmonies, the way the instruments perfectly complemented one another; and you swayed with the music, despite yourself. You recognised the piece, although you wouldn't be able to name it, and you quietly hummed along.

Then came the piano solo. You listened, and from your seat you could see the pianist's hands move across the keys, so swiftly, so effortlessly, like he was born to play. You were sitting on the edge of your seat, holding your breath; as if the very act of breathing would spoil the music drifting through the air.

The melody was building up, and the tension in the room rose with the notes and the volume as it slipped into a crescendo; then the music slowed and got quieter, and soon after the violins pitched in, and then the violas and the bass and the brass and the percussion, and the whole orchestra was playing in harmony again.

You sighed quietly, sat back in your seat. There was a prickling feeling on your cheeks, the feeling you got when something wasn't quite right–someone was watching you.

Sure enough, when your eyes searched the audience, John Shelby was looking straight at you.

Your breath caught, and you fought the urge to cast your eyes down. He was looking at you with an indiscernible expression, face void of emotion. Though his jaw was set and his expression was kept carefully neutral, it were the eyes that ruined it. Even from this distance you could see the intensity in his gaze–you didn't know whether it was good intensity or bad intensity but there was a fight in his eyes, all kinds of emotions struggling to take over.

But you couldn't let down your gaze. You couldn't–you had to let him know why you were here. That you weren't going to leave without an explanation. That he owed you that explanation.

And you couldn't go to him. Not yet, anyway; the music wasn't over yet, the performance was still going, the room was so quiet one could have heard a pin drop. So you sat, hands folded in your lap, eyes trained on the musicians while simultaneously being aware of John's gaze on you, and patiently waited for the performance to end. You found you couldn't quite enjoy the music anymore as carelessly as you had before.

And then it was over. It was over and everyone rose, gave a standing ovation. The applause was a kind of music in itself, you supposed; a whipping music, staccato, rapid, matching the speed at which you imagined your heart would beat when standing at the edge of a one hundred foot drop.

John clapped for only a moment, then cast you a last look and drew back into the crowd. You did the same, bowing your head and mumbling apologies as you made your way past the people next to you–you sat in the very last row, but the room was full and sometimes you had to squeeze to fit between the wall and the backside of a well-dressed man or an even better-dressed woman. You frantically sought John out, fearing for a second that you'd lost him; but there he was, at the door, only pushing it open when he saw you following him.

The cold outside air was like a slap in the face compared to the hot and stuffy Garrison. You instantly regretted not taking your coat, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing your hands up and down your sleeves. John stood a little bit off, his hands in his pockets, that stupid and eternal toothpick between his lips. He looked up when you approached, then looked down again.

It was that–along with the freezing evening air which made it almost impossible to think of anything else but the cold burrowing itself into the very marrow of your bones–that snapped you out of your stupor and cleared your head at once. You were over the initial shock. There was no reason now for you to let your mind wander to places it shouldn't. What you needed was an explanation, perhaps, if you were lucky, an apology. And then you would go home. You would go home.

"Weather's bloody awful, ain't it?" you finally started, because John wasn't making any indication that he would say–well–anything.

He sniffed, rubbed at a spot on the pavement. Nodded. Still said nothing.

And you were starting to grow irritated. Because he was the one that had been so horrified to see you there, though his own brother had invited you to the damn event, and he was the reason why you were there in the first place, and why you were now standing outside and it was starting to fucking rain. "Are you going to say anything?" you blurted. "Because if not, I'll go back inside. To get my coat, I mean, and then I'm going home."

He looked up now, up and into your eyes, and still said nothing.

You ran a hand through your hair, scoffing in disbelief. "Oh my fucking god. Why did you bring me out here if it's just to stare at me with that fucking look in your eye? Am I not worth talking to?"

Anger flashed in his eyes at that. "That's not it. You know it's not."

"Well, apparently I don't–"

"I didn't force you to follow me here!"

"You wanted me to, though!"

"Maybe I just wanted a fucking smoke, Y/N!"

You pursed your lips, clenched your jaw. "Then say it. Fucking tell me you didn't want me to come to you."

Of course, he said nothing. His lip twitched.

You gave a bitter laugh. "Right. Okay. I get it. Johnny Shelby, too proud to admit he's made a mistake." You took a step back. "I cried for you. I cried–I cried over you."

"Y/N–"

It felt horrible. It felt like someone had taken a rusty nail to your heart and carved his initials there, forever to stay and forever to hurt. Tears started to form in your eyes. You blinked them away, angrily, telling yourself it wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth it.

You had cried enough.

"Wait. Y/N. Please."

Please.

You guessed you had a weak heart, after all.

"I'm sorry."

A weak heart and a weak soul, but weak only for him.

"What for?" The anger had evaporated from your voice and your expression, and now you were just... sad. Bitter, a little. Mostly disappointed, in yourself.

"I left. Because... I don't know why. Easier, I guess." He met your eyes. He was speaking the truth, and it was hard for him. Maybe because he wasn't used to speaking the truth, maybe because he wasn't used to speaking the truth about this. "I don't know how–I don't–"

You waited, no longer apprehensive. Hopeful, maybe.

Weak for him.

"Denying it was easier because I didn't think I was meant to feel like this. Because you were my friend–are my friend," he adds quickly, and you choke out a giggle. "But, you know. I thought it would go away, after a while. If I just tried hard enough."

It sounded so much like what you had felt, these past few months. What you were still feeling–what was only just starting to unravel.

"And, well, it didn't work. Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn't be here." His hand came up, and his fingers brushed your jaw. He leaned forward. "And neither would you."

Weak for him.

Your lips touched and immediately you burned.

You burned, and you let yourself burn, winding your arms around his neck, pressing harder against his mouth. You burned, and the cold of the night did not bother you anymore. You burned, and back inside the Garrison the orchestra started playing again–the party had started, for good–and it was like they were playing just for you.

#john shelby #john shelby fic #john shelby x reader #john shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #john shelby fanfiction #peaky blinders x reader #john shelby one shot #john shelby fluff #john shelby angst #peaky blinders angst #peaky blinders fluff

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terravilla · 5 years ago

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New Home Owners- Mini Renos

When I first divulged to my boyfriend that I was painting the kitchen black, he gave a very distinctive look like he smelled something fowl or was chewing on a lemon. It is a bold statement to pick dark/deep colors for walls and if done wrong, can make a space look cheap and dirty. If done correctly, can make a space look classy and striking. It can also be very difficult to repaint so using a matte finish makes it much easier to redo the walls if down the road, you decide to lighten them.

As you can see from the above photo, the kitchen was redone by the previous owners with very busy black, grey, white, and dark blue granite countertop. It draws so much attention to the eye that it washes out the rest of the room and almost seems like it isn’t properly integrated into the space.

The backsplash is a solid grey that has a slightly olive tone which severely clashes with the countertops much to my dismay. My boyfriend wants to keep the backsplash so with the constraints of the existing tile and countertops, the next step would be the cabinets, walls and window treatments.

The hardware is silver which matches the stainless steel appliances and the light fixtures installed by the prior owners. To save money we are leaving those as is. The white cabinets are a nice contemporary style so I decided to leave those white which will also save us some money.

Since black is such a striking color, I plan on doing a flat black paint to give it a cozy and natural feel. The peninsula wall and waterfall counters are a defining piece in the kitchen so I will be installing wood shelving with leather straps to compliment to silver and leather bar stools we purchase for the counter. (Bar stools and concept color photos below)

The inlay detailed backing on the counter facing the dining area is currently white but for posterity, I will be painting that black. Since the peninsula wall is a standalone wall, to create drama, I will follow the black paint into the dining space on the small half wall. This will compliment and create flow from the counter which waterfalls in the opposite direction.

The switch plates will be subbed out with silver or nickel plats to match the rest of the fixtures.

The window treatment is going to be the next big item in the kitchen in order to define the space. We had blinds custom made to our old apartment which were wooden slat blinds. The brown tones of the blinds will incorporate well with the bar stools and shelving. I think they would be a perfect addition if they should actually fit! We will know more when we get situated in the house.

The prior owner seemed to have slopped together a bunch of remnant items to make this house sellable. The walls were painting a light robins egg blue and the trim a darker robins egg blue which it looks intuitional. The doors and door handles are industrial grade like a hospital and the floors are a lower grade vinyl wood which can warp and scratch easily with furniture and liquids. Not a very pet friendly service but it will do in the interim until we decide to either replace them or at least get area rugs to protect them to some extent.

If you are going to install a floor in your house, make sure that it is installed by a well known professional flooring company and to purchase midrange to upper range quality because over time, you will get the best bang for your buck! Otherwise you’ll end up paying double within 5 to 10 years just to have decent looking floors again.

There are a lot of things that need to be redone soon with the home to make it a more valued asset than the basic renovation that was done to get the house sold. Our purchase of the home was not based on the quality of its’ interior but more on how clean it was, its’ location, and the potential return on investment 5 years down the line. This is not our forever home but I intend of bringing this bilevel mid-century home back to its’ former glory!

That being said, the house was built in the early 1960′s and it structurally appeals to a mid-century vibe so instead of fighting that to keep up with current trends in the design market, I am going to appeal to its natural lines and use accent pieces that are removable to define the personality of the interior spaces. I will be changing the front of the house to reflect this as well. The garage doors will be exchanged with horizontal wood doors with windows, the shutter will be changed to match the garage doors, and the front door will be removed and replaced to reflect a sleeker less traditional look.

Since Mid-Century Danish style architecture and design seems to have a timeless appeal, its not much of an effort to move forward with it. The real struggle is going to be staging the house to appeal to a wide range of home buyers.

We have a moving target of budget to do these renovations and more. Having priced out most of them so far, we suspect total cost in renovations will be around $6,000.

The house was valued at 315K and we purchased at $309K. Total break even if sold at 315K. We are hoping that we will be able to list the house at 350k 5 yrs from now. Profit is important when doing a long time flip on a house. For me, creating a space and making it better than I found it is also important. Sometimes those things go hand and hand and sometimes they don't. Once the project is up and running, I will do a play by play on cost and time it took to complete. The kitchen redesign will take the least amount of time. The front elevation will likely take the longest and in-between many other smaller project will hopefully be completed to make the house really what it needs to be.

With a little help, I know my boyfriend and I can do most of the work ourselves cutting down substantial labor costs. For me, it will be worth it. I love projects. For him, he’ll gripe at first but eventually see the fruits if his labor and feel pretty good about it. A good test to a strong relationship is renovating a house together. If you can live through that, you got something special!

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wilderwestqueen · 6 years ago

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A Pinch of Sugar and a Dash of Spite - Chapter Two

“Astrid Hofferson has better things to do than ruin your life.”

“Yeah? You could’ve fooled me.”

Hiccup Haddock’s just trying to sell coffee and stumble through presentations about Shakespeare, but one persistent rude customer keeps ruining his day. Astrid Hofferson would be the top of her class if it weren’t for one golden boy barista that needs to be taken down a notch.

[Coffee Shop AU] [Enemies-To-Lovers]

IN THIS CHAPTER: Astrid Hofferson continues to get under Hiccup’s skin. Also, we meet Hiccup’s manager.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Start from the beginning

[AO3] [FF.NET]

as welcome as a bath mat made of lego

"And she's been coming in a lot?"

"Every day," Hiccup grunted, his voice muffled from the screwdriver wedged in his mouth. "I just wish I knew what I'd done to piss her off so much."

Hiccup was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, wrestling with the coffee machine in his lap. It had started sparking the day before, sputtering and refusing to function properly, before it conked out completely. Gobber had told them to leave it for an electrician, but Hiccup's frustration had built and built until there was nothing to do but take it out on the broken appliance.

Fishlegs chewed on his lip, casting a worried eye down from his position behind the counter. "I think you're making it worse."

Hiccup scowled, stabbing the machine twice with the screwdriver. "It's got to be something more than just me beating her in a couple of tests. She's got it out for me."

He put the screwdriver back in his mouth, attacking the machine with his fingers instead, attempting to rip the back end off by wedging his fingernails in between the cracks. It didn't work.

"Do you even know anything about electronics?" Fishlegs asked.

"I don't even know her that well. How is it possible that I've ticked her off that badly," Hiccup grumbled, screwdriver hanging on the edge of his lips, "when I've barely even exchanged two sentences with her before last week?"

"You're going to electrocute yourself."

"She's got all of her friends in on it, you saw them giggling when she came to get her drink today. She's got a vendetta against me, I swear," Hiccup said, stabbing the coffee machine again.

With a jolt and a clang, Hiccup managed to fling the casing of the machine open. Fishlegs' eyes bugged out as he watched Hiccup lift the screwdriver up, ready to descend it down onto the wiring.

"Hiccup, stop!" Fishlegs flew from the counter and forcefully snatched the screwdriver from Hiccup's fingers. "You're going to hurt yourself."

Hiccup gave a very long, tortured sigh, but he let Fishlegs rescue the machine, letting out a groan and resting his back against the counter.

Fishlegs tutted, running his little finger along the dent Hiccup had left. "You realise we're going to have to pay extra to fix this now?"

Hiccup said nothing, sticking out his lower lip into a pout and crossing his arms, childishly. He knew he was being ridiculous - the floor was sticky, there would probably be customers he needed to attend to soon, and it certainly wasn't Fishlegs' fault that he was in such a bad mood - but even so, he couldn't stop himself. Astrid Hofferson brought out the absolute worst in him.

"It's like dealing with a toddler," Fishlegs muttered.

He was about to chide Hiccup some more, but he was interrupted by a cough, and then an "ahem?" in a very familiar, unwelcome voice.

Fishlegs swivelled - somewhat ungracefully - around to greet the customer, his lips curling into a fake smile. "How can I help you?"

Astrid - Fishlegs had become very familiar with Astrid now, from Hiccup's descriptions, if from nothing else - smiled sweetly. "I need to speak to Henry," she said.

Hiccup's face twisted in horror, and he flattened his back against the counter, covering his eyes as if to hide himself. "He's not here!" he stage-whispered up at Fishlegs. "He's gone on his break!"

Astrid hadn't been alone today. She'd queued up with two other girls - both of them unfamiliar to Hiccup, but if they hung out with her, they were probably just as heinous. While she'd ordered, the other two had watched, while smirking. Astrid's drink today was a venti coffee Frappuccino with two scoops of ice, five pumps of frap roast, double blended. It had been so thick, he'd had to scoop it out with a spoon, and he was pretty sure that their blenders had met the same fate as the coffee machine he'd spent the afternoon wrestling with.

The last thing he needed was to remake that order.

Behind the counter, Astrid broke into a peal of laughter, and Hiccup's jaw clenched. He'd never thought laughter could sound so grating.

"So, is he going to hide behind the counter until I'm gone, or does he just enjoy sitting on a grimy floor?" she said to Fishlegs.

Hiccup scowled again - it was becoming a permanent fixture on his face - and dragged himself up off the floor to meet Astrid at the counter.

Henry Haddock did not look good. Usually, he looked rather placid and unimposing, with wide green eyes that were covered by a flop of brown hair. Instead, his hair was sticking up all over the place, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders were hunched beneath the loose black shirt he always wore for work. She felt a nasty, vindictive rush of pleasure at the thought of Henry having a bad day - it was nothing less than he deserved.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

It was a standard, polite customer service line, but the sentiment didn't quite reach his eyes. He glared down at her, hands twisted into fists on the counter, his eyes darkly daring her to mess with him even more.

Who was she to pass up an invitation like that?

"I need another drink," Astrid said, not bothering to hide the smile playing on her lips.

Henry clicked his tongue loudly against his teeth. "What was wrong with your other one?"

Astrid shrugged. "Didn't taste very good."

"It's policy, Astrid, I can't make you something else just because you didn't like the first one. You already paid for it."

She rolled her eyes. "Henry—"

"—Hiccup," Henry said with a grunt. "My name is Hiccup."

"I can't believe you'd willingly call yourself Hiccup over Henry," Astrid said, "and I wasn't asking for another one for free."

She waved her wallet at him.

"Fine," Henry said, exhaling with more than a hint of exasperation. "What can I get for you?"

Astrid stroked her chin, her eyes flickering across the menu, as if deliberating very carefully. "I think I'll try a Trenta iced coffee cream, with twenty pumps of raspberry and twenty pumps of white mocha."

As he punched the order in, he looked up at her in disgust. "Twenty?"

"You heard me."

The two locked eyes for a moment, Henry staring at her with one eyebrow raised, the picture of disdain. Astrid held his gaze, resolute.

Henry was the first to look away, mumbling, "I don't know why I even bother to ask," as he tapped the rest of the order into the computer. "D'you want anything else with that? A slice of cake? A muffin? A shot of insulin?"

A splutter of laughter burst from Astrid before she could stop it. She smothered it with her hand, ignoring the look Hiccup was giving her. "Not today, thanks," she said, trying to stop herself from smiling.

He turned and let his back face as he made the order, while Astrid rocked from foot to foot and whistled a little tune. "Nice day today," she commented, her hands behind her back. "Good day for making coffee."

"Yeah," Henry mumbled, "you know what else it's a good day for?"

"What's that?"

"Leaving," he said emphatically, slamming her drink down onto the countertop.

Astrid didn't try to smother her grin this time, her smile stretching across her face as she picked up the cup. "Thanks, Henry," she said sweetly, before turning towards the door.

"My. Name. Is. Hiccup!"

It wasn't until after she'd closed the door behind her that she descended into giggles.

"If I close my eyes and don't look," Hiccup said, splayed across the sofa, his good leg flung across the back cushion, his prosthetic resting against the coffee table, one hand pressed over his eyes, "then Astrid won't be in all of my classes this semester."

She'd visited the coffee shop every day that week.

First, it had been a grande, quad, nonfat, one pump, no-whip mocha. Then, it was a vanilla bean Frappuccino, with five pumps of every hot bar syrup they had. She did all the standard things annoying customers did - demanding a grande in a venti cup, deliberately mispronouncing espresso, asking for free water - and by the time Friday rolled around, Hiccup was ready to pull his hair out. He'd skipped out early, shutting the coffee shop a good thirty minutes before it was supposed to be closed, and headed home. Fishlegs followed him, if for nothing else but to stop him from destroying something out of frustration, like the poor coffee machine.

It wasn't until Hiccup had freed himself from his prosthetic and thrown himself across the sofa, that he remembered he was supposed to check his class list for the new semester.

"Check for me," Hiccup mumbled, rolling over onto his stomach and pressing his face against a cushion. "I'm too afraid."

His laptop was open on the coffee table, and he nudged it towards Fishlegs with the tips of his fingers.

Fishlegs sighed, but he pulled the computer towards him anyway. "Alright," he said, clicking through, "Elizabethan literature, renaissance, modern and contemporary… sorry, Hiccup, looks like she's in all of them."

"You're joking me," Hiccup exclaimed, throwing himself towards the table and grabbing the laptop from Fishlegs' hands.

"It's kinda hard to miss, your names are right next to each other."

Hiccup checked it for himself, and sure enough, there were the names: HADDOCK, H and HOFFERSON, A, written next to each other in damning black script across his screen.

He groaned, flinging himself back onto the sofa. "This is the worst day of my life," he said, and then a horrible thought came to his mind. "Oh god, what if they make us sit alphabetically?"

"They won't make you sit alphabetically," Fishlegs said, "this is university, not pre-school."

Apparently, this was pre-school.

"Sorry!" Cathy, their seminar tutor, said brightly, "I know it's not ideal, but I find it's easier to learn everybody's names if I seat you alphabetically!"

Dr. Cathy Wainwright had been a lecturer and tutor since his first year, and despite her PhD and numerous accolades, she still treated everyone as if they were back in school. She looked a bit like a school teacher too, with tweed skirts and a pair of red-rimmed glasses that she had to keep pushing up her nose.

Despite her twee appearance, she had a sadistic streak, or at least Hiccup thought so, otherwise he wouldn't be sitting at a table at the front of the room, inches away from Astrid Hofferson. Cathy had lied – she knew everyone's names already. She'd done this deliberately to torture them.

He could feel the hatred radiating off of Astrid. She hadn't said so much as a word to him since he'd sat down, but he'd seen the subtle curl of Astrid's lips as he'd been assigned the seat.

What did I do to you? He wanted to scream it at her. What did I do to make you hate me so much?

He didn't scream at her though, he just watched her out of the corner of his eye as she drummed her blue-painted fingernails up and down on the table while they waited for class to start.

"Right!" Cathy said, clapping her hands together. "Who wants to start the discussion?"

Nobody in the room spoke.

"Come on, don't be shy!"

The class stayed silent.

Cathy put her hands on her hips. "If nobody is going to speak, I'm just going to have to pick someone at random and make them talk."

Oh, no.

She pulled out her paper-form register and let her finger trail down the list. "Let's see here…"

Not me. Not me. Not me.

Hiccup did everything he could to seem inconspicuous. He ducked his head down, stared solidly at his fingers.

"Ah!" Cathy said. "Henry Haddock! You're always very quiet, how about you start us off?"

Hiccup's heart sank. His hand instantly went to scratch the back of his head. "Er…" he mumbled.

He could feel Astrid's gaze hot on him, and although he wasn't looking at her, he knew her mouth had twisted into a smirk.

"Maybe you could give us some of your thoughts on Romeo and Juliet?" Cathy prompted.

"Well, I—" Hiccup began. He could feel the whole room looking at him. God, how was he supposed to form sentences when so many people were looking at him? "—I suppose it's a very romantic story—"

"—Romantic?" Hiccup was cut off by a very loud scoff from the person sitting next to him.

Astrid was looking at him incredulously, one eyebrow raised. "You think it's romantic?" she carried on.

"I guess?" Hiccup stammered, embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. "Everything's against them, and they choose each other anyway."

"What good does it do?" Astrid said, firmly. "They die. I hardly see how that's romantic."

Hiccup felt the indignation burning his chest, and bit by bit, he stopped thinking about everyone else in the room, just about her. He wasn't going to let her make a mockery of him.

"Isn't it about throwing yourself into something, no matter the odds?" Hiccup said. "To be so passionate about something that even though you know the whole world's against you still give it a shot?"

Astrid eyed him for a moment, and then curled her lip. "No. It's a cautionary tale - don't fall in love, look at all the problems it causes."

"But don't you think that's a shallow reading?" Hiccup said. "To boil down one of the greatest tragic love stories to a simple anti-love statement seems a bit reductive, doesn't it?"

Astrid narrowed her eyes. "Let's see," she said, counting down on her fingers, "Romeo and Juliet 'fall in love'—" she aggressively air quoted as she spoke— "after one day, get married after two, attempt to run away and then botch their own fake suicides and manage to do it for real, all whilst getting three people killed along the way. I don't understand how that's not a cautionary tale about teenage love, how it doesn't work, and how you can't be in love after one day."

"That's just reducing it down to the basic beats rather than giving any consideration for what any of it means," Hiccup said, crossly. He could feel himself going red. "You put so much effort into explaining why you think Romeo and Juliet are idiots that you don't take any time to consider what the feud means for them. It doesn't matter how old or mature they are, they could have been in their twenties and had a courtship for years and it still would have ended the same way - it's not them as people, it's not their fault, it's the fault of the families, and of the feud."

Hiccup took a breath, and then realised that he and Astrid were practically nose-to-nose. He'd forgotten about the class full of people, and just now noticed that everyone was staring at the two of them.

Cathy was watching them carefully, a grin on her face. "Excellent points, both of you," she said. "I'd like to add a few words about the feud. Think about it: there are two families who have been fighting for so long - it's all they know, and it's all they know how to do. They haven't even considered that there could be another way - the Montagues hate the Capulets, that's just how it is. That's the real tragedy of the story, that it takes six people, including their own children's suicide, for them to realise that they don't even know why they're fighting in the first place."

Hiccup and Astrid eyed each other, and then both looked away.

"Right," Cathy said. "Anyone else got anything to add?"

The seminar continued, and Hiccup did his very best not to look Astrid's way again.

After it was over, Cathy pulled Hiccup to the side.

"I'm happy to see you in my class again, Henry," she said. "Even happier to see you participating! I don't think I've ever heard you speak so much."

Hiccup just shrugged.

"Y'know what I think?" Cathy said, "I think Astrid's really good for you."

"I don't—" Hiccup said sharply, and then stopped, when he realised he had no idea how to express just how wrong she was.

"I think you need her," she said, reaching out a hand to squeeze Hiccup's shoulder. "She's like your foil, she makes you work harder."

Bullshit, Hiccup thought to himself, thirty minutes later, still stewing and grinding his teeth.

Astrid wasn't good for him. Astrid made him question his morals, because he'd never considered murder so appealing until he'd met her.

He needed Astrid Hofferson like he needed several splinters up his fingernails.

Hiccup was still fuming about the seminar much later at his evening shift, storming around the store as he shut off appliances, cleaned tables, and swept the floor.

He slammed his mop into a bucket of soapy water with so much force that he almost spilled it everywhere.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?"

He'd been so focused on violently wiping away as much dirt as possible that he'd walked straight into his manager. He looked down at Hiccup, his hands on his hips, a half smile on his face.

"Nothing," Hiccup said, with a scowl.

"Well, you've wiped the floor at least three times over and if you grip that mop any harder, I'm worried you're going to break it."

Their manager was huge, thickset, with a scraggly yellow moustache; he would have been imposing if it weren't for the crinkles either side of his eyes and a quirk of a half-smile that softened his features and made him approachable. He spoke with a thick Scottish accent, and he'd asked all of them to call him Gobber. When they'd asked him why, he'd said, wryly, "that's a story none of you need to know."

"He's thinking about Astrid Hofferson," Snotlout called from his seat on the countertop, not looking up from his phone.

Gobber scowled. "Get off that bloody thing and do some work. What do I pay you for?"

"'Kay, sorry," Snotlout muttered. He made no sign of movement, still not looking up from his phone.

Gobber raised his eyes to the heavens. "Who's Astrid?"

Hiccup opened his mouth to answer, but Fishlegs, who'd been cleaning one of the coffee machines underneath the counter, popped his head up and answered for him. "She's this girl who keeps coming in to order weird, complicated drinks. Hiccup thinks she's got it in for him."

"She does have it in for me," Hiccup insisted. "She's deliberately trying to make my life difficult."

Fishlegs scoffed. "She's not trying to do anything."

"Are we talking about the same girl?"

"Remember," Gobber said, "everyone's welcome in Bean & Gone. We must treat every customer with the utmost respect."

"She's as welcome as a bath mat made of lego," Hiccup muttered under his breath.

Gobber cuffed him over the head. "What's got into you? I expect this from the likes of him—" he jabbed his thumb in Snotlout's direction— "but you're usually so polite. What's this girl done that's so terrible?"

"She just—" Hiccup clenched his jaw— "gets under my skin."

"Well, don't let it get to you," Gobber said. "We can't afford to get complaints. I have inspectors breathing down my neck every other day, we don't need to give them any extra leverage."

"Fine," Hiccup said, sourly.

"Which reminds me," Gobber began, "does anyone want to explain to me why the broken coffee machine looks like the last bastion of caffeine in a nuclear apocalypse?"

"It started sparking last week," Fishlegs explained, "And then Hiccup decided to let out his frustrations on it."

Hiccup flushed a bright red. "I was fixing it!"

Fishlegs raised an eyebrow. "You were stabbing it with a screwdriver."

"So?"

"It's amazing you didn't electrocute yourself."

"Guys, please," Gobber groaned. "I told you to leave it for the repair guy. You know it costs extra when it looks like it's been messed with."

"Sorry," Hiccup and Fishlegs mumbled together.

"And while I'm on the subject, we gotta talk about health and safety."

Snotlout let out a long groan. "Must we?"

"We must if you want to keep your job," he said, patience wearing thin.

Snotlout pressed his lips together into a thin line. "Fine."

"First of all, I've sent for an electrician to check the wiring. I know we've had a few power cuts here and there and I'm slightly concerned that it's going to turn into a bigger problem. If something happens when I'm not around, if anything starts sparking or you smell anything weird, report it immediately," Gobber said.

All three of them nodded.

"Next," Gobber said, "you guys have gotta be more careful of where you put things. For the love of God, Snotlout, you have to stop leaving delivery boxes on the shop floor, because one day someone is going to trip and hurt themselves. I don't care how difficult it is to carry them round the back. You do it."

Snotlout leaned back in his chair, his arms folded, and his chin practically touching his chest and his pouted. "Fine," he said, his lower lip sticking out.

"Good," Gobber said. "Anyway, I won't keep you three for any longer, just make sure you're in on time tomorrow, and no slacking off. I'm looking at you, Snotlout."

Snotlout had already pulled his phone back out from his pocket. "Yeah, bye."

He stood up and swept out of the room. The rest of them watched him go.

"Unbelievable," Gobber muttered, before turning his attention to Hiccup and Fishlegs. "Have a good night, you two."

Hiccup and Fishlegs bade their manager goodnight and gathered their things. On the way out, Gobber squeezed Hiccup on the shoulder.

"Don't let this Astrid girl get you down," he said, kindly. "It's not worth it, in the end."

Hiccup nodded but bit his lip.

It was a nice sentiment, but he had a feeling that it didn't matter whether or not he let Astrid get to him - that girl was going to find a way to burrow deep into his nerves and bring them all to the surface.

He was pretty sure that however awful Astrid had been to him so far, he hadn't seen the worst of it yet.

He couldn't have been more right because across campus it was time for Astrid's nightly contemplation about murder.

Her work with Professor Vaughn-Stretton was as frustrating as ever. Since the last time she'd tried to get him to read her work, he'd turned his nose up every time she attempted to get him to look at another paper. He was always too busy, he didn't have the time, "my work is just too important to leave right this minute!" he'd say.

She always asked the next day, and his answer was always the same. He'd suck in a breath, he'd give some excuse, and then he'd say, "ask me tomorrow, I'll get to it then!"

That's what he'd said tonight, and not for the first time, Astrid had to grit her teeth, put on a smile, and wonder why she put herself through this.

"Miss Hofferson, you couldn't be a dear and photocopy these sheets for me, would you?"

I'd like to slam your head under a photocopier.

"No problem!" she said, with a fake smile so big and forced that it hurt her cheeks.

Astrid stomped out of the room, her fingers curling around the sheets of paper so hard that she had to fight off the urge to rip them. Fortunately, her self-control and her fear of Vaughn-Stretton's wrath had her keep them in pristine condition by the time she got to the photocopier.

As she put sheet after sheet through the machine, she was reminded of something her mother taught her long ago.

When Astrid was a toddler, she'd been the type of child to throw tantrums. The kind of wobblies that could bring an entire pre-school classroom and its poor, underpaid teacher to their knees. One day, Astrid's mother had taken her hands and knelt to her level.

"Astrid, my dear," she'd said, "some days you're going to feel angry at everyone. Some days everyone around you is going to frustrate you so much that you just want to scream and scream and scream. But sometimes you can't scream. Sometimes you need to put on a smile, and a brave face and power through it."

Astrid had puffed her cheeks out and pouted. "How?"

"You have to think about what makes you happy," she'd said. "Instead of focusing on what's making you angry, you have to think about a place, or a time or a situation where you were happy."

The conversation drifted into Astrid's thoughts as page after page came shooting out of the photocopier.

Where was her happy place now?

She wouldn't describe it as happiness exactly, but it wasn't hard to recollect the last time she'd felt good – it had been a sadistic kind of glee, the kind of terrible satisfaction that came from messing with someone else, and as she gathered photocopies into her hands, Henry Haddock flickered in her mind.

There was something wonderful about bringing him down a peg. After so many hours of hearing stories about the golden boy who could do no wrong, there was a sadistic thrill in watching him struggle over ridiculous drink orders, and stammer whilst she grilled him in class.

Maybe that made her a horrible person. Maybe she was okay with that.

When she went back to Vaughn-Stretton's office, she found that was no longer angry when Vaughn-Stretton demanded something else ridiculous from her. Instead, she was thinking about all the different drinks she could order, all the different combinations she could try, in short - she was thinking about all the ways that she could make the boy behind the counter suffer.

Henry Haddock had no idea what was coming.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

#hiccstrid #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup x astrid

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getorlandorealestate · 6 years ago

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4/2 Home in The Crossings 531 Hassocks Loop, Lake Mary FL 32746 - $348,777 Call Karen for a Private Showing 407-928-3788 Reference MLS #O5718468

Welcome home to your showcase home which mirrors the pages of Architectural Digest located In Seminole County’s premier community of Lakewood at the Crossings. This tastefully customized and completely open plan is designed with a modern flair. and has been totally renovated by the owners. As you drive up you will be welcomed to this one story, classy home with an inviting Aqua Blue door, nestled away on a tree lined street.

Step into the entry lined with refreshing, crisp white, millwork in the hallway. The family room offers voluminous ceilings, plants shelves and an array of sliding glass doors which let the natural light inside. You will also be delighted by the intimate hearth and mantle fireplace framed by a mirrored wall surrounded by a mindful grey neutral palette.

The chef in the family will appreciate the functional kitchen featuring contemporary Cherry cabinetry enhanced by the rich, Baltic Brown granite countertops complemented with an additional granite serving bar and full stainless steel package. The kitchen flows effortlessly into the sunlit dining room which is a great space for entertaining guests. The dining room is lined with gorgeous wood floors, crown molding and a charming chandelier.

Wind down in the master retreat. The master bath has a spa-like feel with a generous vanity wrapped in granite with a countertop cabinet diving his and hers sinks, framed by artsy picture framed mirrors and shower with earthy decorative wall tiles, garden tub, and a roomy walk-in closet designed in white built-ins.

Entertain outdoors in true Florida style on your patio where you will enjoy sunsets overlooking the sparkling pooland spacious grounds surrounded by a platform deck where you may entertain guests poolside. This home has been fully renovated and lovingly maintained by its owners.

This close-knit community of the Crossings has friendly neighbors who welcome newcomers.

Lake Mary was recently recognized as one of the “10 Best Towns for Families” by Family Circle Magazine. Be a part of the best school systems in the area the Lake Mary School system which ranks in the top 3% in the country. You may walk to the YMCA, library, Reflections Park and schools.

Call Karen Today for a Private Showing 407-928-3788 Reference MLS #O5718468

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#real estate #realestate #just listed #justlisted #pool home #getorlandorealestate

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caykeisart · 2 years ago

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Miami Transitional Home Bar

#Inspiration for a small transitional single-wall medium tone wood floor and brown floor wet bar remodel with an undermount sink #gray cabinets #wood countertops #recessed-panel cabinets #multicolored backsplash #mosaic tile backsplash and brown countertops home bar #open bar shelves #mosaic tile bar backsplash #glass mosaic backsplash / wall tile #home bar ideas #single wall #custom built home bar

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jeremystrele · 3 years ago

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Individualistic Home Designs With A Sassy Sense Of Style

A sassy sense of style runs through the two individualistic home designs that we tour here. Our first intriguing home tour takes place in a meticulous restoration of a large 5-bedroom townhouse, which features beautifully restored woodwork, custom details and around 8,000 square feet of light-filled interiors. Colourful artwork and an eclectic furniture collection shape living spaces that draw the eye and excite the mind. The second home design we visit is a loft, located in the historic Gilsey House building in the NoMad neighbourhood of Manhattan. Industrial features hark to its history, whilst bold art pieces, colourful accents and a bespoke staircase design make the loft into a marvellously modern and uplifting home.

Source: Compass

Led by award-winning architect, Jeffery Povero of Povero&Company, this 20ft wide single-family townhouse renovation includes five bedrooms, six bathrooms and immaculately rejuvenated living spaces. Colourful wall art brings the light-flooded lounge to life. Bright scatter cushions and throws colour the sofas, whilst a large area rug adds texture to the floor.

The glorious wooden staircase has been restored, bringing rich warmth to each floor of the townhouse. In the dining room, a multicoloured rug adds a bright contemporary touch by the classic woodwork. A modern dining room chandelier fills the fresh white ceiling space.

The townhouse boasts an interior of approximately 8,000 square feet. An enormous kitchen is blessed with an impressive central island that doubles as a casual dining/breakfast spot.

Industrial style kitchen bar stools line up beneath the clean white corian countertop. Five elegant pendant lights meander above the length of the island.

Grey and white framed kitchen cabinets build a custom look. Two side-by-side 6-burner Wolf ranges and a farmhouse sink place focal points in the arrangement. One small doorway leads into an oversized pantry, whilst French doors lead onto an intimate balcony with a grill and outdoor dining bar that overlooks 5th Avenue.

The entryway features more exquisite woodworking and original dark-wood wainscoting, beneath impressive 12ft high ceilings.

An eclectic furniture collection builds a sophisticated look.

A chestnut brown tufted leather sofa complements a rich wood coffered ceiling in the cosy library/den.

In the corner, a librarian ladder climbs the book stacks. An elegant chair and side table fashion a cosy reading nook.

In the back parlour lounge, wise monkey figurines top a vintage bar that was sourced from an old hotel.

The bar was restored and fitted with new appliances, electrics and plumbing.

The top floor of the five story townhouse contains three of the bedrooms, two bathrooms, a laundry room and a “hidden” office.

A production office is located on the garden level of the home. Streamlined desks, exposed brickwork and industrial style lighting gives this space its own distinctive character from the house.

The property also boasts its own ten seat home theatre.

String lights add a magical twinkle up on the fully furnished roof deck.

A dining area is partially shaded under a wood pergola, whilst the outdoor sofa and chairs bask in the sun.

A Jacuzzi bubbles in a rooftop hideaway.

The master bedroom suite is on the third floor. A small sofa aesthetically matches the upholstered bed. A large bedroom rug holds the arrangement together.

A second bedroom harbours a quirky zoo of ceramic animal heads across the TV wall.

The master bathroom features a double sink bathroom vanity with a luxe Nero Marquina marble countertop.

A custom walk-in closet offers a plethora of clothing and accessory storage options.

2036 Fifth Avenue is located just one block from 125th Street, a vibrant boulevard lined with restaurants and shops.

Architect: Worrell Yeung

We travel next to an apartment located in the historic Gilsey House building, in the NoMad neighbourhood of Manhattan.

During this remodel, all existing walls were removed to highlight the historic windows, original moulding, and steel structure. Now natural sunlight hits clean white walls and vibrant artwork at every turn.

A light grey kitchen provides gentle contrast against the white backdrop.

Henry Le Monnier’s Source Verdier, 1931, makes an eye-catching addition above the stove and a stunning marble backsplash.

A small shelf is integrated into the dramatic marble slab.

The exposed steel structure of the building creates a cool industrial vibe.

A built-in bookcase rises in front of the stairs, creating one connected wooden volume within the open layout.

Sections of the bookcase remain backless to let light and visuals flow through.

The custom staircase design melds smoothly with the bookshelves.

Decorative items break up the book collection.

Bright wall art fashions areas of interest as we move through the loft.

Reclaimed wood doors were salvaged and refurbished to create historical interludes within the minimalistic decor scheme.

Exposed pipes continue the industrial thread throughout the loft, sometimes colourfully highlighted in a playful pink finish.

A home workspace has been created with a bespoke black marble desktop and a lively gallery wall.

Another custom-built bookcase and staircase combo build a cool kid’s space.

This time, cheerful turquoise paintwork colours the shelves and treads. Ash wood floors brighten the space.

A wild black and white decor scheme brings the family bathroom to life. Bold yellow bathroom fixtures further accentuate the fabulous concept.

The floor plan demonstrates how the master bathroom runs off the long dressing area of the master suite. The child’s room has access to the family bathroom just opposite, by the stairs.

Recommended Reading: Unique Interiors Enlivened With Multicolour Decor

Modern Classic Chairs

Inspired Industrial Interiors With Exposed Brick Walls

Three Enviable Industrial Style Interiors

Loft Design

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a-splash-of-stucky · 7 years ago

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Be My Muse [1/2]

Pairings: Bucky x Reader || Steve x Peggy

Summary: Modern AU. This part involves handsome strangers, a bar and friends trying to set each other up on dates.

Warnings: Potentially some language. Besides that, none, unless you need a warning for fluff :)

Notes: For @just-some-drabbles‘ writing challenge. My prompt was #42: “It’s a dare, you have to do it. Those are the rules.” This is in bold somewhere.

Also - I’ve never worked in a cafe/coffee shop, so apologies if things aren’t accurate. Feel free to (constructively) correct me if this is the case!

[Part 2]

My Masterlist || {gif source}

The cafe is always quiet at 4pm on a Thursday.

You’re busying yourself behind the counter, taking advantage of the afternoon lull to get some cleaning and organising done. Thus far, you’ve polished the pastry display case, wiped down the countertop and put away the cleaned mugs and plates from this morning’s customers.

Although the cafe is a lovely place to work in, it’s not exactly where you imagined yourself to be, at this stage of your life.

Oh, sure, you could have landed a far worse job. Though it gets lonely sometimes, having to do the afternoon shift by yourself, at least you have a great friend in Sharon, who comes by to help you with the busier morning shift everyday. Besides, the peace that settles over the cafe once the lunch hour is over is a welcome reprieve from the hustle and bustle of your life. Maria, the owner, is a kind — if, fairly strict — boss, and the pay here is better than anything you could have gotten anywhere else.

There’re several less-than-positive things about this job, like the bathroom that reeks of urine no matter how hard you scrub it, plus the fact that you seem to only get customers that love to loudly complain about the slow service is, but hey; it’s a job that pays and one you’re glad to have. As such, you’re willing to overlook the less savoury aspects of it.

You’re in the middle of arranging glasses on the shelves when the bell over the door dings, and the most stunning man you’ve ever set eyes on walks into the shop.

You try to surreptitiously check him out as he casts his eyes over the menu. He’s well-built, with chestnut brown, slightly wavy hair that is tied back into a little bun. The stranger wears a black leather jacket over a grey t-shirt, both garments hugging his body in a most delectable manner. His dark blue jeans accentuate what has got to be the best looking ass you’ve ever seen and those thighs, my god. You have to physically restrain yourself from thinking salacious thoughts about them. When he pulls his sunglasses off, you have to fight the urge to swoon, because damn - a face like that belongs in a magazine.

Mr Handsome saunters up to the counter, hands thrust into his pockets and you dash over to assist him, wiping your sweaty palms on your apron and hoping to the dear gods above that you don’t make a fool of yourself.

“H-hi,” you stutter, immediately chiding yourself for letting him see how flustered you are. “Um, how can I help you?”

The man smiles, “What do you recommend I get?” he asks. Oh, sweet lord, that voice — gifted to him by the goddamn angels. Deep and mellow, but at the same time slightly husky. It makes your knees weak.

You gulp, trying desperately not to get lost in the alluring blue of his eyes. “Um, well, th—the lemon tart. That’s—that’s my favourite. And—uh, if you want a drink, the—um, any coffee’s good,”.

“D’you make them?” he asks, leaning casually against the pastry display.

Oh.

Your brain very much like how that posture makes his shirt ride up slightly, exposing just the tiniest strip of flesh. You force yourself to take a deep breath to steady your racing heart. “I—yes. I make them,” you reply.

Mr Handsome grins, “Then of course they’re gonna be good,” he quips.

You blush. “Oh, um—,”

“I’ll have whatever your specialty is,” he says, “And the lemon tart. And your name, if that’s okay,”.

You giggle girlishly, internally wincing at how high-pitched and fake it sounds. “It’s Y/N,” you tell him, “Would you like that to-go?”

“I’m James,” he says simply, shifting to rest both both elbows on the counter as you step away, “And yes, to-go. I’ve got to meet someone,”.

This close, you can’t help but notice the sleek leather glove he wears on his left hand. For a brief moment, you wonder why he has it covered up. “Sure thing,” you murmur distractedly, grabbing a take-away cup and turning the coffee machine on, grabbing the milk you’ll need to fix him — James, you remind yourself — a latte.

“Quiet, today, huh?” James comments, taking stock of the little shop.

“It’s normally pretty quiet around this time,” you admit, “Kinda like it. The mornings are the busiest, so it’s nice to get a break after,”.

“You’ve been working here long?” he asks curiously.

“Um, just over a year,” you reply. “But I’m hoping that changes soon,”.

“Oh? Explain, if you don’t mind,”.

You sigh, hitting a few buttons on the coffee machine and watching as it starts to warm up. “Well, I’ve…I’ve always wanted to have my own shop. A little bakery, somewhere. I’ve got my eye on a place, but I haven’t had the money to put down a deposit. So I’ve been saving up,” you tell James, as you pull out a box to put his lemon tart in.

“Sounds lovely,” he murmurs, smiling at you. “You bake, huh?”

“Yeah,” you reply, smiling fondly as memories of Sunday mornings spent in your mother’s kitchen spring to mind. “My mama and I used to bake all sorts of things on the weekends. We’d have bake sales, sometimes, to raise money for whatever charity my dad was supporting at the time. We were gonna open a bakery together. I was gonna go to pastry school, and everything,”.

“What changed?” James asks quietly, sensing the wistfulness in your tone.

You’re silent for a moment, masking your hesitation by fussing around with his drink, finishing the art on his foam with a well-practiced flick of your wrist. When it’s done, you turn around, fold your arms over your chest and bite your lip. Talking about your mother and your shattered dreams have stirred up feelings of grief and loss that you’d thought were long buried in the back of your mind. The rational part of you knows that you have no obligation to tell James anything, but there’s an honesty in his eyes that makes you trust him.

“I—my dad lost his job, which he’d had for nearly twenty years. He—he drank. A lot. And one night, he was driving drunk, with my ma in the passenger seat, and they—didn’t make it home,”, you say, voice a little strained at the end.

“I’m sorry,” James says, and when your gaze flicks over to him, you see genuine sincerity in his gaze. “That must’ve been hard for you,”.

You shrug, crossing over to the pastry display and using out a pair of tongs to pull out a lemon tart, which you carefully slide into the box you’ve prepared. “It was, but it was a while ago. I’ve…been doing okay since then. Still hoping to open that bakery someday,”.

“I’m sure you will,” James murmurs.

“And yourself?” you ask, turning your back to him temporarily so that you can secure the box shut. “What do you work as?”

“I—am a writer,” James answers, though his tone is a little terse. “Well, at least, I’m supposed to be one,”.

“What d’you mean?”

“I’ve…had writer’s block. For the longest time. And my editor and publisher—they’re starting to get impatient. I just…haven’t been in the mood for it, y’know?”

“My sympathies,” you reply, looping a blue ribbon around the box and deftly tying it into a neat bow. “That must suck,”.

“Yeah,” James sighs, “But talking to you has helped given me some ideas,”.

“Really?” you murmur, lips quirking up into an easy smile as you hand him his drink and tart. “That’s eleven, please,”.

“Yes, really,” James says sincerely, fishing out his wallet from back pocket and handing you a twenty dollar bill. “Keep the change,”.

“Oh, no, I—,”

“Please,” James says, already beginning to walk towards the door, “Save up for your little bakery,”.

You duck your head so that he can’t see the smile bursting over your expression, “Thanks,”.

“See you around,” he calls, as he shoulders the door open.

As you watch his form get swallowed by the swarming crowd outside, you give yourself a mental smack to the forehead for not having the foresight to give him your number. All you can do now is hope that you see James sometime soon.

——————————

“Ooh, hottie alert,” Natasha snickers, eyes flickering across the room towards the bar. Following her line of sight, you crane your neck to see who she’s referring to, Peggy and Wanda doing likewise.

“Oh, god,” Peggy groans, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh yes,” Wanda says, a grin spreading over her face.

It’s Friday night, which means that you and the girls are spending the evening at your favourite bar, parked in your default corner booth. You’re nursing a G&T, and somehow, Natasha has managed to coax everyone into a game of truth or dare. The aforementioned game has just been interrupted, as Nat has spotted one of the bar’s other frequent customers.

“You have to ask him out, Pegs,” Wanda insists, eyes still trained on the muscular blonde. “He’s a really nice guy,”.

“For the hundredth time, it’s not happening,” Peggy growls sullenly, gaze firmly fixed on the empty beer bottle in the middle of the table. “Now, come on, Natasha, spin it, will you?”.

Nat arches on perfectly-sculpted eyebrow, but says nothing as she gives the bottle a spin with a deft flick of her wrist. As luck would have it, the spout ends up pointing in Peggy’s direction.

“Truth or dare?” Natasha asks, grinning smugly as she sits back in her chair.

Peggy quirks up her own eyebrow in response to Natasha’s unspoken challenge. Those two go after each other like a pair of fighting bulls, honestly. “Dare,” Peggy says, tone resolute and confident.

“Oooh,” Wanda murmurs, tilting her head closer to yours. “Nat’s dare are the worst,”.

“Or best, depending on how you look at it,” you reply. Wanda snorts, amused.

Nat cocks her head to the side and chews her lip thoughtfully, brow furrowed in concentration. One finger idly traces the rim of her glass. “Got it!” she says, snapping her gaze to Peggy, “I dare you, to go over to the bar and ask blondie out,”.

“Steve?” Peggy hisses, agahast, “Natasha—no,”.

“Natasha, yes,” Nat shoots back, fighting hard to keep the triumphant, mocking grin from spreading across her face.

“Please,” Peggy begs, “I—I you know how I feel about—,”.

“And that is precisely, why you have to do it,” Natasha interrupts. “I’m doing you a favour here,”.

“I shan’t do it,” Peggy grumbles.

“It’s a dare, you have to do it. Those are the rules,” Natasha says flatly, tone leaving no further room for argument.

“C’mon, Peggy,” Wanda urges, “You two have been making eyes at each other for the last month. It was gonna happen eventually,”.

“Fine,” Peggy huffs, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Fine, I’ll do it. But on one condition. Y/N has to come with me,”.

“I—what?” you ask sharply.

“For moral support,” Peggy explains, turning to look at you with pleading eyes.

“Since when have you needed moral support for shit like this?” Nat mumbles.

Peggy turns up the intensity of her gaze and you feel your resolve melting under it. When have you ever been able to say no to one of your friends, anyway?

“Okay, okay,”, you sigh, “Let’s go. C’mon, up,”.

“Good luck!” Wanda chirps, as you and Peggy make your way over to the corner of the bar that Steve is leaning against. Peggy clutches your elbow when you draw nearer, as if needing some physical reassurance.

“I can’t believe I let her talk me into this,” Peggy mutters under her breath, casting an evil glance in Nat’s direction.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. He seems like a nice enough guy. What d’you want me to do?” you ask.

“Umm…can you do the introductions?” Peggy whispers, “You’re always so much better at that part,”.

You roll your eyes. “So long as you do the actual asking,” you respond dryly.

“Deal,”.

Peggy drops her hand from your elbow, allowing you to saunter up to Steve. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, watching as you nonchalantly lean back against the counter, then swivel your head to look directly at his profile. Somewhere to your left, Peggy hovers, apprehension radiating off her in thick waves.

When he senses you looking at him, Steve turns his head and flashes you a gentle smile. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, voice deep and gentle.

“Ma’am?” you echo, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. “My, my, you are a polite one, aren’t you?”

Steve shrugs and ducks his head, a pink flush spreading over his cheeks. “Well, my ma raised me to always remember my manners,” he admits.

“God bless her,” you say. “You’re Steve, right? I’m pretty sure we’ve talked before. Just, y’know, with me being a lot more drunk,”.

Steve chuckles heartily, eyes glinting with merriment. “Yes, I seem to recall something along those lines happening,”.

You laugh along with him, before resting a hand on his forearm pointedly. His eyes flicker over your face, confusion furrowing his brow. “Is there something I can help you with?” he repeats.

“Actually, there is something,”, you murmur, motioning with your fingers for Peggy to come forward. She appears by your side not a heartbeat later, and Steve turns to face her.

“Hi,” Peggy says, body going uncharacteristically tense. “I’m—Peggy. We’ve uh—,”. You resist the urge to giggle; you’ve never seen Peggy this flustered. Steve must really be doing a number on her heart.

“Hey, I’ve seen you in here before, haven’t I?” Steve asks, gracefully swooping in to save Peggy from potentially making a fool of herself. Well, really, she’s too composed to make a fool of herself, but you appreciate Steve’s thoughtfulness, nonetheless. Sensing that your work here is done, and that the two are about to have a conversation, you step away, giving them some privacy.

“Yes,” Peggy breathes, relief spreading through her shoulders, “Yes, we have. I’ve got a question to ask you, actually,”

“Ask away,” Steve says, smiling easily at her.

“Would you like to dance?” she blurts out.

“I’d love to—,” is what Steve begins to say, before he is cut off by his phone vibrating on the table beside him, pinging with the noise of an incoming text. Steve glances at the screen and frowns, “Sorry, I need to get this,” he mutters, shooting Peggy an apologetic look. He unlocks his phone and swipes a few buttons, brow becoming increasingly furrowed as the seconds tick past.

With a heavy sigh, he straightens up and gives Peggy a pained look.

“Is everything alright?” Peggy asks concernedly.

Steve sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his hair. “I—something came up. A friend—my best friend. He’s—I need to see him,”. He pauses, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance,”, he murmurs, looking at Peggy through his outrageously long lashes.

“Alright,” Peggy says softly, “A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club,”

“You got it,”, Steve replies, a hesitant smile spreading over his face.

“Eight o’clock on the dot. Don’t you dare be late, understood?”, she continues. That sounds more like the Peggy you know; firm and unrelenting, not taking any bullshit from anyone.

Steve manages a chuckle, amused by her forwardness. “You know, I don’t actually know how to dance,” he admits, adding a little shrug for emphasis.

“I’ll show you how,” Peggy says, expression and tone softening, “Just be there,”.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Steve replies, a far-off look in his eyes. “Here, let me give you my number,”, he mutters, patting his pockets for a pen and grabbing his napkin from under his glass. He flips it over to the drier side and scrawls on it a string of digits, before thrusting the little tissue into her palm. “See you, I guess,” Steve says, flashing Peggy one final, cheeky grin, before turning to head out the door.

“Bye,” Peggy murmurs, expression distant and fond and love-struck.

“I think someone’s in it deep,” you sing-song, elbowing her playfully in the ribs.

“Oh hush, you,” Peggy snaps, but there’s no heat in her voice, which only makes you cackle gleefully. “So what if I am? I think he’s a nice guy to have a crush on,”.

“I wonder if her has a friend that’s just as nice?” you muse, “Nice guys are so hard to come by, nowadays,”. Even as you speak, your mind thinks back to a dark-haired, well-dressed stranger walking into your shop, putting butterflies in your stomach whilst simultaneously making you feel completely at ease.

“Want me to ask him?” Peggy says, waving the napkin in her hand.

“I think I’m good,”, you murmur, grabbing her upper arm and leading her back to the booth where Nat and Wanda are waiting anxiously.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself,”.

——————————

Peggy breaks the news once you’re on the way back home.

“You what?”

“I set you up on a blind date!” she repeats.

“With who? When?” you ask incredulously.

“Steve’s friend,” Peggy replies, “After I got his number, I decided to ask,”.

“Steve’s friend?” you echo, “I told you not to ask!”

“You never told me explicitly,” Peggy says defensively, “You just said ‘I think I’m good’, so I took it upon myself to ask on your behalf. His name’s Bucky, by the way,”.

“Call it off,” you growl.

“I shan’t,” Peggy replies, in that tone she uses when she’s unwilling to back down from a fight.

“Y/N, you haven’t been on a date in months,” Wanda interjects, “Maybe this’ll do you some good,”.

“C’mon, Y/N, what harm can it do? You might actually like the guy,” Natasha adds, slinging her arm over your shoulders.

“Fat chance,” you grumble, thinking back to James at your cafe. You’ve only spent ten minutes, at most with him, but you’re positive that he’s taken your heart.

“Just try,” Wanda implores. “When is it, Peggy?”

“Tomorrow, 8pm, at that Thai place ‘round the corner,”, she replies.

“Fine,” you grumble, “I’ll do it, if it’ll make y’all leave me alone,”.

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