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jolapeno · 2 years

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this year's love.

simon ghost riley x f!reader

wc: 5.5k warnings: angst. fluff. smut. feelings. usual jo things. summary: And then you begin calling him Riley. It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful. Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips. an: from the drabble where ghost 'dates' a non-militant he meets in a pub. this is dedicated to @yeyinde for reminding me why British pubs are adorable, and also to @guyfieriii because she hates my angst, but loves my fluff, and makes me want to write better.

simon ghost riley masterlist

He suspects he should stay away.

As soon as he began to crave the sight of you. Ignoring the fact he’s heard This Year's Love by David Gray three times already—and he has only been here an hour. The condensation beads from his glass pools on the picked-at-bar mat, drenching his fingers and wrist.

Not that he cares.

Ghost—

Simon knows it’s all part of the charm.

It has been since the day he turned eighteen and his boss at the butchers took him for his first pint.

The place hasn’t changed since. Everything from the same ten to twelve songs which crackle through the worn and tired speakers. The smokey air, and discoloured, yellowing wallpaper.

Things don’t get replaced either, the chipped glass ashtrays are the same as the ones he remembers. The same chipped mahogany tables with the ill-matching chairs and stools that are wobbly.

The scent in the place is familiar, a mix between festering ale and Mr Sheen, working men and cheap perfume, fust and smoke—both from the crackling winter fire and cigarettes—even if one hasn’t been smoked inside of it for years.

The place, to outsiders, would look like any stone-walled pub on the corner of two streets they’ll never remember. Then they’ll step in, their eyes glancing over the peeling wallpaper, moth-eaten curtains (that never close) and the once-white nets in the windows, before questioning what they’ve walked into. That’s before they’ve noticed the white ball on the pool table is in fact another black ball and that the dart board triple 20 has been chipped out after Bald-Andy lost his rag.

The pub has been a real gem to those who know what real diamonds are for as long as Simon can remember. None of the regulars care that the bar stools have burns from cigarettes being stubbed out, they don’t care that the musty smell doesn’t vanish even with Febreze and sheer will. It’s expected, just like how the bar is always sticky and the energy always feels right.

Here, he can relax.

When he’s home, he feels purposeless. A man with a map but no direction. But, he can unfurl his shoulders from his ears, even let his hood slide to the back of his neck.

Because in this place, strangers aren’t welcome. It’s a local pub, for local folk. Those who wander in, thinking the pub on the corner of quaint and quintessential will provide them with a typical British evening, normally leaving before Freddie Mercury has reached the bridge of whatever song is on rotation.

But, Simon isn’t just here for the bourbon or the ale, he’s not here because the wooden fire licks every wall of the place. He’s not here because it feels more like home than his actual home.

He’s here because there’s one thing that has changed, and it’s you.

You with a rosy, sweet laugh that usually accompanies a smile which makes his heart gallop. It calms whatever storm rages inside of him when you look at him—when you bore your pretty, fucking eyes into him before you lean over, hand on the beer pump as you call him Simon.

Simon.

His name has never sounded more serene than when it falls from your lips. The way you say it makes it seem less than ordinary, almost unique. Humour sways in your eyes, a glint he knows there’s more too—and wants nothing more than to explore.

You’re a vibrant surprise in the middle of my mundane, and it took him all of five minutes to discern you’re both difficult and charming all rolled into one.

And then you begin calling him Riley.

It’s more flirtatious—more meaningful.

Simon is when you’re soft, thanking him, when others are close and can hear you. Riley is when you’re leaning over the bar, staring into his soul and smirking so deviously it takes a lot to not kiss it off your lips.

Women haven’t tended to last here—except Tracy. Tracy, who like the urinal cakes, has been here since Simon’s first pint. Her lines had deepened in her skin over time, but her hair has remained that putrid blonde she tries to claim is natural.

You, on the other hand, are far younger—kind, soft, unless someone gets lairy and then there’s a ferociousness to you that’s packed into something so small. He suspects you know what the men at the bar look at when your eyes aren’t looking, and it’s not the way you command the small space stuffed with offerings and glasses.

He’d paid no mind initially. Tried not to, anyway. He’d decided it would be for the best. Then you’d bite back at Dave that you may be too young to remember a song, but you could still get down on her knees without them creaking.

He had smirked at that.

Deciding his new seat at the bar, on the rickety bar stool was his new favourite seat.

To this day, you always smell floral, but the accompanying scent with it changes. Sometimes you’re sultry, sometimes you’re just sweet. Each time he is able to return ‘home’ he’s never sure which one he’ll get—but it burns a place in his nose all the same.

Hard to shift, difficult to smother, not that he wishes to do either.

Their first exchanges were simple. Contractual. Another? Yes. Your usual? Yes. Then you had placed a deck of cards in front of him, a teasing smile on your face in the quietness of a Wednesday evening.

Keep me company.

It was difficult for him to grasp how soft your eyes were, how it made his mind blank and his heart both hammer and stutter all at once.

Now, it’s normal.

He’s used to it, fucking welcomes the way they land on him. He thinks about them on the plane ride home, how Alan—the chef who’ll serve anything off-menu for a packet of fags—makes a mean all-day breakfast sandwich. But mostly, it’s you.

“You back for long, Riley?”

“No.”

“Never are.”

“You sound disappointed, sweetheart.”

You always smile the same when he calls you that. Always half-roll your eyes before shaking your head, as though flirting with you is oh so wrong.

Especially when you start it first.

“What would you do if I was?”

That’s new.

His fingers pick up a crisp, watching you lean on the pump in front of you. The star earrings hanging from your ears, catch the bar spotlights, making it seem as though you’re literally glowing.

But then, you are—to him at least.

Someone calls for you, pint raised in hand—saving him from answering. You wink, and mumble you’ll be right back, the words lingering in the space you once stood.

You’re too good for him.

Too normal. Too unscarred and untouched. He suspects a bad thing has never happened to you. You’ve not plunged a knife into someone’s throat, not shot a moving target with a precision that most try to replicate on their controllers and headsets.

For that reason, and that reason alone, he knows he should stay on this side of the bar. Even when it takes all of his self-restraint to do so.

It’s hard though.

More so when you give him that look—that one which makes his cock twitch and his thoughts turn feral.

Because the nice girl from the pub may have a sweet, soft voice, but fuck he knows you’re anything but.

You’re all red lips and righteousness, a siren and enchantress who chooses floral perfume to try and disguise the way your eyes undress him.

Not that he complains.

He’s done the same.

Fucked his own fist to the thought of the noises you’d make and how you’d feel enveloped around his cock.

Tonight he’d likely do the same.

Winter is in full effect when he next returns.

Snow was thick on the streets, the roads a horrid mix of ice, slush and asphalt.

You’re behind the bar, Bald-Andy and his wife in the corner near the fire, and the crackling, gruff voice of Oasis is playing. You look up, lips smirking, eyes glistening.

“The usual?”

He considers it. Sweet, caramel and vanilla notes hit his tongue in memory. But he shakes his head, pulling out a stool, and sitting opposite you as your perfume greets him.

“Surprise me, sweetheart.”

You stand fully, hair falling around your face, making his heart lurch and his stomach burn.

“Living dangerously, I see,” you say, turning your back to him as you pull at spirit bottles.

If only you knew.

He suspects something sweet when you place the glass in front of him. The sound of it meeting the worn wood so loud, not that the other two patrons look over. As though it’s just the two of you. No one else. His eyes lift, hooking themselves into yours—unwilling to let you tear them from him as he tries to bury the aches of war and fighting.

It’s caramel coloured, darker at the bottom of the glass than the top. Ice. So much ice.

“Go on, try it, Simon.”

And he does.

It’s sweet, and zingy. It’s mellow but spicy, and he tastes the hints of ginger and rum as the cold hits his teeth.

“What y’made me?”

“You like it?”

Yes.

The tip of your tongue swiping across your bottom lip, watching you lean smugly. “Dark and stormy… the epitome of you.”

A groan leaving his lips, your laugh tasting of sunshine and happier days.

A long moment stretches between the two of you, one that makes the air thrum and him having to shift his jeans. A continuous voice in his head, telling him no, telling him to put a stop to this now.

He drinks it. He even orders it again.

Time ticks fast—too fast. He wants it to slow. Ever since their first flirtation, if you’ve finished when he’s there—he walks you to your car.

You drive something small, your entire backseat is always covered in coats, shoes and books. Something normal, and so typically you.

He does the same tonight, hands in his jacket pockets, periodically scanning the area as you lock the big wooden doors of the pub. You shake them, ensuring you have, pocketing the keys before turning to nudge him.

Simple. Soft. Each gesture in the short walk is always seemingly effortless. You don’t worry he’ll take offence, that he’ll shatter or snap.

Not that he would.

His arm lifting, letting your small hand slide around it for stability as the snow falls thick and fast. It paints the streets in a blanket that crunches under their boots. And there’s something about the snow landing in your hair, on the tip of your nose, even on your lower lip.

He wants to brush it from your mouth, and trace the bow of your upper lip with his thumb.

Because it’s all a contradiction. Snow makes you look innocent, something close to a character from a movie or a Disney film. And, you’re not any of those things.

You’re snarky, huffed whispers and quick retorts when drunkards try to hit on you; you’re witty, funny and boldly brilliant.

So much so, he’s never sure why you work there. He knows you’re studying, knows you’re trying to better yourself. You’ve told him as much over a Pepsi Max in your hand and something stronger in his.

He knows it’s odd to keep staring at you. Your eyes staring up, making your eyes seem wider and bigger than they actually are—pretty sure the flurries of snow, stars and moon are shining in them. But it’s his treat—his reward. The thing he thinks about when he’s knee-deep in mud or covered in blood, sweat and bruises.

Your feet stop at your car, unlocking it—the beep and flash of your headlights casting light across the car park.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

Smiling, you lean against the rear window. “Never are.”

It’s a pattern, a habit. An exchange that has become the norm for the two of you as much as hello and goodbye.

Then, you sigh.

Something you rarely do, not to him—not with him. His brows knitting, tightening, heart thundering in his throat as you drag your eyes up his chest, and neck and land on his face.

“Do you know how perfect it would be, if you grew a pair and kissed me in the snow, Riley?”

Your hand slides into the handle, opening it as your smirk turns into a grin. One which is brighter than your headlights, the moon—hell, the fucking sun.

“Guess I’ll have to wait for a shooting star, instead.”

And, you laugh, leaning your back against the car—expression blended with vulnerability and searing heat that should melt the settling ice on your face.

“Y’seem like the sorta woman to make me work for it.”

“Oh yes, because eighteen months of will-they-won’t-they hasn’t been tedious enough.”

He grabs your elbow, roughly pulling but finds you fall into him with far too much ease. The snow continues to fall, leaving soft cold kisses on his face, but he doesn’t feel cold.

How could he? You’re staring up at him with the searing heat of the sun.

“Y’want me to kiss you, Sweetheart?”

“More than I want to go home and sleep, Riley.”

His hand cups your cheek, warm meeting cold as he pulls your lips to his. Cold, soft lips slide against his, and he tastes the orange from your cordial swirling with his bourbon-covered tongue. Your car groans when he presses you against it, your hand clutching him with the same desperation as he’s flush with your body.

Your cheeks are warm against his hands, eyelashes fluttering open as the two of you break apart.

“You… you want to come back to mine?”

Yes. Fuck yes.

But—

“Next time.”

“Yeah?”

His fingers brush down your cheek, and he nods.

He got your number.

For convenience. You tell him he didn’t need to come in and drink one of your piss-poor beer pulls just to get in your knickers.

So he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text when he first lands. He gives himself a day—a moment to shed the Ghost and become Simon. When you do you don’t reply with anything witty, just straight-laced—just like he likes it.

A time. An address.

He expects you to size him up at your front door, even bracing for a changed mind. You don’t do either. You let the door open, standing two steps inwards dressed in something lace and rippable.

Fuckin’ fuck.

It’s the only thought he has before he slams your door behind him, striding towards you and practically throwing you over his shoulder.

You don’t taste like what he expects—it’s better.

His tongue flattens against you, two fingers inside your warm cunt as you whimper. You reluctantly still clutching to the promise you’d made earlier. The one where you informed him it’ll take more than a few fingers and a skilled tongue to make you scream.

So he sucks. Bites. Nips.

He finds that squishy part, stroking it as your thighs twitch by his ears.

It’s then he grants himself the chance to look at you, finding your lipstick spread in a way which seems deliberately chaotic—even if he knows it isn’t. Your lashes wet, eyes clamped shut as you try and try not to give in.

So fuckin’ stubborn.

Your hands, all smooth and soft, clutching your breasts, the pink of a nipple poking out between your index and thumb as your chest rises and falls as you fight calling out his name.

He likes that you have convictions—it gives him something to break.

His tongue swirling, knowing already what he needs to do to undo you.

And then—

Simon—fuc-k, Simon.

It’s better than classical, better than whatever is number one on the fuckin’ charts. The sound of you coming hard, and fast, trying to bury it in a whisper than the scream you actually want to release. All of it is a better sound than his knife plunging into some unsuspecting op—because he will make you scream.

He laps up every ounce you give him, your pleading whimpers and nails in his hair making him groan against your cunt until you almost snap his neck—or try to.

“Take them off. Now.”

He doesn’t like orders.

He fucking detests them. He gives them. Normally loud and booming. But your voice, all sweet and high-pitched, trying to give stern eyes when your lashes are coated in tears he’s caused…

Your eyes widen when he stands naked. And he knows he’s big.

He’s very fucking aware of it. He’s seen plenty of evidence to support the fact in the wild, surprised eyes of those who he’s dropped his trousers for.

You now being one of them.

But fuck, he fits in you perfectly. So much so, he wants to mould your insides to match him, to ruin you for every other person who thinks they stand a chance with you.

Because they don’t.

But then neither does he.

Not that he’ll squander a moment to fuck with heaven—to hear the cadence shift when he hooks your leg over his hip as he drives his cock into you all the way to the hilt.

He coaxes another out of you, your tight cunt like a vice around him as your manicured nails leave scratches on his back. His tongue swipes across your jaw, before haphazardly capturing your mouth.

You taste like mint polos and sex—a taste he is already sure he’ll crave.

And he wonders to himself if you know how fucking perfect you are. If you have any idea of how stunning you truly are.

Especially like this. Your body shimmering with sweat, each thrust making your breasts bounce as your fingers tease his hair at the nape of his neck.

And then he wonders about something else.

Something far from coating your walls in his come.

Would you fit in his life?

Would you fit as well in it, as he does inside your cunt?

And then you’re clenching, hips lazily trying to meet his as you whimper, moan—

And then you scream.

Not Riley.

But Simon.

Mission accomplished.

It has become a habit.

You have become a habit.

He lands. He waits a day. He fucks you until you are raw, sore and breathless. His lips are on yours, hands still on your hips as he hears how hoarse your voice is.

“You back for long?”

“No.”

But this no is different.

It’s tinged with half a teaspoon of regret and sadness.

You hide your face when he answers now. Sometimes by slinging your arm to shield him from your eyes or by turning from him. It’s like you know he likes them. Likes being able to see each infliction of emotion in them—shimmering, dancing, storming across in front of him.

Somehow, you’ve fit into his life too well—cutting yourself a hole, forcing your way in, and making it seem as though you were always there.

Simon lets you be, too.

You have one of his t-shirts, baggy, black and covered in your perfume. He finds he has one of your hair ties around his wrist, not even realising until he slides on a pair of gloves. Flicking it against his wrist as he thinks of you, something he only allows himself to do briefly.

Things have changed. Shifted.

But the Earth hasn’t fallen off its axis and he’s not fucked up a mission. So he counts his blessings. He doesn’t know if he believes good things can happen to him, but he could be persuaded that he can have nice things. A belief he even starts to accept. A reality he begins to wish for, rather than keep at arm's length.

You’ve left the pub. You hadn’t been working every night for a while. Your studies had ended—receiving a photo of a cap and gown without your face when he was in the middle of a desert.

Now you’re working a better job, one you deserve more—it’s creative, more you. You make the world brighter, and better while he’s getting dirty and riding the world of darkness. You text him once, the day you got paid, that you bought him something nice.

Something he ripped with his teeth when he landed—much to your annoyance.

You’re no longer the girl in the pub. You’re perfectly applied make-up he fucks off your face. You’re high heels and pencil skirts—and sometimes fitted trousers that hug your arse so beautifully, he’s almost a bit jealous. You’re the pink sky at night, laughter that warms his chest, and a smile he thinks about as he falls asleep.

“What would my alias be?”

Your hand slides over a plate to him. Cheese on toast. Nothing big, nothing major, but he stares at it all the same. Because you’ve made him something.

You’ve been doing it for a while, and each time is as perplexing as the last. His brain is unable to figure out how, why and what he’s done to deserve it. Even if it’s toast, a sandwich, or a fucking meal.

Because it’s something outside of sex. It’s outside of holding the back of your head as he fucks your throat; outside of him pinning you against the dark alleyway of the pub he first saw you in, making you both cold and warm all at once.

Even if he knows—constantly turns it over and over in his mind—that this isn’t just sex. He’s not entirely sure what this is. Except…nice?

You take a bite of your own, the crunch filling the air, crumbs littering your top—his top. “My call sign.”

Simon isn’t sure why he told you about what he did. You were in his arms, warm, smelling of sex, flowers and something sharp. And, it fell out of him. Still drunk off your cunt, lost in the tenderness of your fingers on his chest, playing it a pattern with your nails.

Not everything. Fuck, he couldn’t tell you everything—wouldn’t. But you know enough.

Enough for him to know you’re not running, that you still want him knocking on your door whenever he lands—whether it's morning, noon or night.

Now, you’re making him food. Legs long, his black t-shirt skimming your thighs—all his. Looking ever so inviting, making it hard not to push you up on the counter and give your neighbours something to talk about.

“Egg.”

You snort, sharp and light. “Egg?! You’re fuckin’ rude, Riley. Egg? No, that’s shit, give me a better one.”

“But, true. You’d shatter, you’re more yolk than shell, you.”

“C’mon, be serious.”

He gives you a look, finding the one you’re giving him sultry, teasing—demanding.

“Snow.”

You stare for several seconds before you hum, crunching the corner of your food with your teeth. “Lemme guess because I’m oh-so-delicate?”

No—

It’s because you’re fucking perfect.

Because you’re his favourite season and favourite moment.

On some deeper level, he suspects it’s because you’re pure. That you’re unruined. Untainted. Your body has no scars—except the one from chicken pox and one on your hand from a glass bottle shattering. But, that’s it. He’s kissed every inch of you to know, to be 100% sure.

You’re Snow because each time he sees it, he thinks of you. Those red lips, all that fucking audacity and the way you kissed him, tasting as warm as bourbon and as sweet as sugar.

“Yeh, ‘cause you’re all pure and innocent, Sweetheart.”

You laugh, richly. Head thrown back, perfect thin neck exposed to the air—to him.

And he wants to kiss you.

He wants to taste your laugh and smile, let his hands run around the back of your thighs and feel you against every inch of him.

That’s when your eyes land on him again—all full of questions and spice. Your tongue drags across your plush bottom lip, wiping up the grease from the cheese as he swallows.

His throat suddenly dry.

Because the girl he met in the pub—the one standing before him—is standing in his t-shirt. Looking every bit delicious, good enough to eat and never come up for air.

And he thinks—

Realises, he actually, might—probably—miss you when he goes back to Price.

It’s stretched on for months. A year.

He lands, uses the key you gave him and stamps the snow from his boots, half smiling to himself as he does. Whenever he gets here, he doesn’t wait, he finds his way to whatever room you’re in.

Sometimes he doesn’t get far, your body colliding with his. All curves in his hands and arms around his neck, and he’s not sure what the fuck this is, but he likes it.

Loves it.

It’s something like a song about falling in love and a peaceful Sunday morning; it’s those moments you see in movies that make your eyes swell with tears as he stares at you, wondering how on earth you’re so goddamn amazing.

It’s familiar, and yet he has no idea what is happening next or why.

Mostly, though, Simon knows it’s something because he said your name to Johnny.

Not because he was dying, not because he was hurt. But in the middle of a normal conversation, one exchanged on some dark rooftop, stars twinkling, and eyes fixated on a building down a scope.

Normally, he wouldn’t have answered. Would have ignored him.

If y’could be anywhere, right now, Lt. Where’d y’pick?

He didn’t need to think.

He didn’t say home. Because home wasn’t his place, the pub or even the fuckin’ city he’s always ever known. It’s wherever you are. It’s where your heart beats and your bed is placed; it’s where your annoying, shitty music taste is blaring and that sleepy smile is when he wakes up next to you.

So, Simon said your name.

Simple. Easy.

Except it wasn’t simple or fucking easy. It was messy, and complicated. Because Johnny tilted his head, in that obnoxious way he does, demanding more information than he is ever prepared to ever share.

‘Fuck off, Johnny, before I punt y’off the rooftop and tell Price you’d been a cunt.’

Because you are locked away when he’s here. You are chained inside his chest, the deepest fucking secret—one no one will ever fucking take no matter how much they dig, how much they push him too.

You are his.

Something only he gets to enjoy—gets to see, hear and taste.

He’s done all of that for the last hour. Getting some sick satisfaction from edging you until you’re pleading with him, begging him with every breath you have to let you come as you wriggle and wiggle, urging him to lift your legs—just like he likes it, how you like it, and make you see fucking stars.

Now, you’re barefoot.

A different t-shirt of his hiding the welts he’s left, the growing bruises from the way he’d needed to hold you in place. Watching, observing—admiring—the oddness to your steps as you flick on the kettle. He’s always close—looming in the sun’s shadows across the kitchen he knows better than his own.

He has to be. Wants to be.

You’ve not just carved a place in your life, but in his chest—his heart. You’ve seeped into his skin, into his soul, merging and bringing to life something he thought had wilted and died. He doesn’t care that he’s vulnerable, that he’s not jagged edges and sharp stares.

“You wanna go out with me? Tonight?”

You pause, tea bag in hand, looking over your shoulder at him as if he’d asked you to slaughter a pig, a child, a whole bloody family.

The moment is tender, almost fragile.

It trembles under the weight of his question and the silence of your thoughts.

Then it stills—

“You don’t… you don’t have to do that…”

“What?”

Dashing the tea bag into the cup, you turn. Hips leaning against the counter, sigh falling from your swollen, pink lips as your arms fold. The air scented with that familiar smell your home always has—jasmine and pineapple, the sun kissing your toes and legs as your face shows thunder and rain.

The air shifts, changing. It’s speckled in ice with a cold breeze punctuated by you suddenly not able to meet his eyes.

“Date me. Change… this. I know that you… I know you don’t have time for that.”

Except he doesn’t hear that, he hears me.

He suspects you don’t say it to hurt him.

But it does.

It wounds—

It fucking burns. It’s on par with a bullet or a rusty knife, twisting and twisting until it’s hitting nerves and making muscles quake.

It worsens when the kettle clicks, ready—waiting. It blows steam under your cupboards, billowing out around the edges before it rushes to the ceiling. Twisting, turning, desperate to escape the uncomfortable space between the two of you.

But, he just wants to pull you close—impossibly close. He wants to cradle and fucking hug you, even if he never hugs anyone. Simon wants to tell you that he hasn’t been doing this with anyone else. That it’s been over a year of this, and even he knows it’s something.

Admittedly, yeah, he didn’t think he’d have fucking time for someone, and then you came in and blew that all to shit. But, on some level inside of him, he knows they aren’t the words he should be saying. So silence fills the space instead.

Doubling. Tripling. Expanding like foam and smoothing over crevices as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

And he knows he should just ask again.

Softer. Maybe with a bit more emotion. Counting in his head. One. Two, fucking Three.

Your body turning, holding out a mug you got him—big, black with tiny ghosts on it. Because you’d pestered and pestered to know what he was called. What his alias is when he shoots people. The mug made you grin when you handed it to him last time—tired of him taking your favourite. The one with a quote from a television show you keep promising to show him. Sarcastic. Almost makes his teeth show when he smiles. He almost does the same when he takes the mug, and you turn away from him.

Now when he takes it, your eyes drop to the floor. To the space between the two of you.

The one which feels vast, and far larger than the bar ever felt.

All Simon wonders is why there’s a pit opening inside of him—why it is filling him with a feeling he wants to cut out of himself. It’s not light or nice, it’s dark and twisty.

Because he’s the same person who goes on stupid solo missions where the percentage of survival is low, and still fucking comes back to base with whatever was asked of him. He’s Ghost—a man who many fear. Who is often coated in more of other people’s blood than he is dirt.

And yet this—

You.

Terrify the living fuck out of him. Not that he’s showing that. He knows he’s stood with a stiff back, and a face devoid of any emotions.

“You said it when we first… Just… I know your job is important. I know you can’t commit and I respect—”

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes meet his. Teeth biting your lip, arms crossing over your chest.

And shit, he hopes to never see this face ever again. This nervous, unsure face that he’s put there. One which complicates everything and pulls on every string inside of him.

You are an enigma, and he’s not even sure you know it.

You’re something he never deserves, something he never thought he’d have, get, or keep.

Yet, here you are.

Someone who has seen every inch of him. Knows what he does. Where he goes. You even know brief moments of his past, the parts of him that he’d rather take to the grave.

You are important. You matter.

He’s falling—free-falling, in fact—and has been for a while, he didn’t even acknowledge it. Pushing it down, letting it sit with all the other things he doesn’t want to deal with.

“Do’ya wanna go out with me tonight?”

Each word hits you, strokes you. He watches as each syllable lands, your eyes reading him.

“You back for long, Simon?”

His lips twitch. “Little bit.”

And then you smile. All devious and cunning, lips twisting as you unfold your arms and adjust your stance. “I think I’d prefer a takeaway. Keep you to myself, while I 'ave you.”

Standing, crossing the small space of your kitchen as he cages you in. Your hand clutching his cheek, soft, gentle, and more than he fucking deserves.

His head lowers, lips close to your ear as you curl your body into him as he whispers, all gruff and quiet so only you—and not a fly or spirit could hear—says, “I’ve always been just yours, sweetheart.”

Simon doesn't expect a response. More a kiss. Maybe even a roll of your hips.

It's why he doesn't expect the words, "I'd hoped so", or the way they make him feel like he's walking on air.

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lei-tired · 1 year

Text

The calm after the storm-GN!Reader x Leon kennedy Re4 remake

Aww my poor baby needs some love and comfort :(

Warnings

Mentions of pills, axes, blood, wounds, etc. Please be cautious when reading dear! 💞 Takes place after Re4

He was standing in his empty apartment. Cuts, bruises, and injuries litter his body. The soft rising and falling of his chest as he takes a deep breath, trying to cool himself down from the heat of the burning pain. The burning, searing, flaming pain of each injury.

His blue eyes flicker down to his hands. The same hands that held the guns, the same hands that were covered in blood. He lets out a groan and puts his hands back at his sides. Memories of everything that happened flashed through his mind.

Every person, every yell, every scream. All of the blood and the horrible smell of death that surrounded that horrific town.

He could still practically smell it on him. The nasty..horrific scent of blood and sorrow. How his eyes watered with tears from the memories. The horrible trauma was still fresh and new in his mind. He remembered the animalistic groans and yells from the villagers. He jumped in shock when a thunderous cry filled the night sky.

Lightning followed shortly after, adorning his room. It was still the same way he had left it before he left for that horrific mission. Rain softly patterned against his window as he looked around his now-dark room. His bed in the middle pressed firmly against the wall. Grey sheets sheathed his bed, slight ruffles in them from the nights of his turning and tossing in his bed. The soft black and grey comforter was neatly laid out on his bed, a corner open so he could have easier access to his bed.

His eyes moved to his pillows. A grey color covers them as well. There were two larger ones and a smaller, more narrow one for him to hug. The headboard of his bead was a black smokey color. It was padded as well. The foot of his bed had a black smokey board. His eyes moved to his nightstand. There was a lamp there with a black cover. A few empty pill bottles littered the top. A brand new bottle of pills sat there, unopened and untampered.

The rain pattering steadily against his window continued to serve as a sort of white noise. A round of thunder came again before the familiar white flash illuminated his room once more. His eyes traveled to the floors of his room. They were a black wooden floor. The black was soft and smokey so you could walk easily and not get tripped out and it served as an aesthetically pleasing sight.

His eyes moved to the small circular gray carpet that lay on his floor. A few stray pieces of clothing he dropped while grabbing his gear for the mission. He quietly walked over to them, the sound of his shoes gently hitting the wooden floors softly echoing through his room and then disappearing. He bent down and gently picked up the clothing. He observed them gently to see what they were. In his hands was a soft dark navy blue T-shirt. He gently tossed it into his clothing hamper. He picked up the other articles of clothing that included a pair of black jeans, a pair of socks, and one pair of boxers.

As he stood back up fully he was met with his black closet. There were silver knobs on them. His eyes traveled over the pictures of people he met in the agency. His eyes traveled over to his mirror. His eyes widened slightly for a moment as he saw his reflection. He walked to the mirror that was on his desk.

He looked into the reflection, his tired blue eyes met with the sight of his tired, beaten up, and weary form. His arms were scabbed over with blood from several scratches from fences, plants, trees, and walls that he accidentally scratched himself on.

His wrists were bruised. He was slightly confused about why before he remembered the room he was in with Luis. A soft smile feigned over his lips as he remembered Luis. Although..soon enough his smile turned into a frown as he remembered Luis' death.

A shaky sigh left his lips. It was soft and quiet as it left him. He let his eyes continue to wander over his disheveled figure. His hair was soft but slightly plagued by blood in some spots. The blood was dry and a darker color. His hair had little strays from him moving around and fighting so much.

His eyes traveled to his face. There was a cut on his cheek and a bruise forming on his cheek. There were dark eyebags under his eyes. His pupils were dilated from the darkness of his room. A cut was on his top lip as well. His eyes wandered down to his neck which was slowly also starting to bruise. He could make out a handprint that was starting to form.

His eyes moved to his shoulders which had slightly healed cuts from axes. He had bruises that littered his forearms. His shirt was slightly ripped and snagged in some places. His eyes wandered down to his legs. His pants covered every injury that he could feel but not see. He knew they were there without even seeing them.

His eyes looked back at his mirror. More photos of people from the agency were on the sides of the mirror. His eyes glanced over to a few. There were four. Different pictures of Krauser and him. One picture was in the training fields. Krauser had a smirk on his face. Leon was looking up at him with a raised eyebrow. He remembered that day...

He remembered that Krauser wanted to show him a new move. A new defensive move nonetheless. Leon ended up falling on the ground not some mud and Krauser had laughed at him.

The second photo...Krauser was holding the camera. Leon was in the bathroom, scrubbing off some marker doodles the others had drawn on him after he fell asleep. Krauser had a smile on his face and he was holding back a teasing laugh.

The third photo was of Kraused and Leon. Krauser was sharpening his knife and Leon was watching him out of pure boredom.

The fourth photo was of Leon and Krauser standing next to each other. They were in uniform. Krauser had an arm around Leon and rubbed his knuckle on his head. Leon was Laughing and trying to get his hand off of him.

Leon felt a weird feeling of conflict in his stomach. He remembered how he killed Krauser...how Krauser killed Luis. He remembered everything. He turned his head away. He looked back at his room.

His eyes looked around before he saw his bathroom door. He thought for a moment. A shower seemed...nice. He walked over and opened the door quietly. His bruised hand gently touched the light switch. The bathroom's lights turned on. His eyes squinted from the bright light and he blinked a few times before he got used to it.

He took his shoes off carefully and gently placed them down. His feet hurt because of jumping from high heights, walking, running, jumping, and having to hold his and Ashley's body weight sometimes. He let his hands gently grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it up. A shooting wave of pain shot through hir lower back and shoulders.

He let out a groan and stopped for a second. He took a deep breath before he managed to get his shirt off. He gently placed it on his marbled sink counter. He slid off his pants and his buckle. A feeling of relief washed through him as the pressure from his waistband and buckle finally released.

He looked at his body in the mirror. Even more cuts, stabs, and wounds were visible. He grimaced and turned his face away. He laid a soft white towel out on the rack. He had one of those glass showers with the doors.

His hand reached for the door handle and he turned the shower on. He put it to the hottest temperature and closed the door, waiting for it to heat up. While he was waiting he took off his socks. And right before he got in he slid his boxers off. They fell to the floor with a soft noise and he stepped out of them.

He opened the glass door and stepped in. He let out a sigh and a happy hum from the relief of the warm water. "mm.." He closed his eyes softly for a moment, allowing his ears to do the only work. He could hear the water bouncing off of his sore body and hitting the glass or the marble floor of his shower. He could hear his soft noises of relief softly echo and reverberate against the glass and walls of his shower.

He stretched and he could hear a few pops and cracks and he felt relief. He let out a soft sigh and grabbed a bottle of his shampoo. The shampoo was healing and restoring. It had a soft, sweet scent of honey and fresh air. It was a soft but noticeable scent.

He squeezed the bottle gently and closed it afterward. He put the bottle back on its rack before he gently scrubbed the shampoo into the roots of his hair. The soft smell of fresh air and honey mixed with the smell of the hot water almost immediately. The suds and bubbles formed in his hair as his hands gently massaged his scalp.

He let it sit for a moment or two before he washed it out gently. He tilted his head back to avoid getting any soapy water in his eyes. Though...after what he has seen, that may not have been the worst idea.

He grabbed his conditioner and put it in his hair as well, but he let it sit in his hair. While he let it sit he grabbed a loofa and he got some of his soft-smelling Dove body wash. The scent was sweet and soft but not perfumy.

He put some water on the loofa and let the soap foam up before he gently washed his body. He got his arms, legs, feet, and his inner thighs. He got his back and his shoulders as well. He gently washed all of that off and then washed a few other places. After he finished all of that he gently scrubbed his face to get all of the dirt and grime off of him. He finally felt clean after the sweat that had dried on his skin washed off. He cleaned the loofa and then washed the conditioner out of his hair.

He continued to let the water console his aching and pain-filled body as a bit of relief washed over him. He carefully got out of the shower after turning it off. The glass was clouded and so was the mirror. He grabbed the towel and dried his hair and then his body. He wrapped the towel around his waist and he grabbed his hair dryer and brush.

He spent 5 minutes drying his hair and brushing it. His hair was free from dirt, grime, sweat, and blood. He ran his fingers through his soft and dry hair. He picked up his clothes and put them in his dirty clothes on his way out of the bathroom, deciding to just leave his shoes in there.

He walked to the black closet and his hands gently opened the doors. He grabbed a soft black hoodie and he grabbed new socks, boxers, and some shorts. He put on the hoodie and slid the boxers up his injured legs and up to his waist. He pulled on his shorts before he walked to his bed and slid on his socks.

He was sitting on his bed, now letting everything that happened seem like a memory, a distant but also new memory. He started to get lost in the memory of everything that happened. He felt his chest tighten up and his breath left him as quickly as it came. Tears blurred his vision and he choked a few times on his tears and coughs as he tried to breathe.

Suddenly his phone vibrates. He jumped, feeling nervous and paranoid. He wiped his eyes slightly and reached a very shaky hand to his phone. He looked at the screen and a bit of relief washed through his system. You had texted him.

He put his passcode in and looked at the text message. It was simple but cute to him, but also very needed.

You: Hi Leon, I heard you got back from your mission! Saving the president's daughter huh? Now that is pretty cool. I know you may be busy signing autographs or some idol stuff like that but maybe I could come over and you could tell me about it?

His eyes glistened over. He needed someone right now...

His fingers gently typed on his phone's keyboard and he replied

Leon: Yeah, no you can come over!

He saw your little emoticon he had set as your contact profile photo type.

You: Ok! I'll be right over.

He smiled and turned off his phone. He put it on his nightstand and he laid back on his bed. He could feel the migraine setting in and he let out a groan. He grabbed his comforter and pulled it over him and he rested his head on his pillow. He fell asleep.

Soon enough he heard the front door to his apartment open and he smiled sleepily. He heard a coat being unzipped and placed up and then he heard the sound of shoes hitting the floor. Soft sounds of little steps were heard coming to his bedroom door.

Then you opened the door. You weren't wearing your shoes and you were in your socks. He watched as you walked over to him and looked at the injuries on his face.

He saw the worry in your eyes and he frowned slightly. He didn't want you upset or sad.

He sat up on his bed and opened the blanket. He saw your eyes travel down his body and towards his injuries. He saw your face contort into more worry. He saw you walk into his bathroom and grab the first aid supplies.

You walked over to the bed and sat down on it. You started to put disinfectant on all of his cuts. He let out gasps and groans from the pain as he squeezed his eyes shut. you grabbed bandaids and put them on the smaller injuries before grabbing bandages and wrapping them around his bigger injuries.

Toward the end of it, you were holding his injured hands in your own and bandaging them softly and carefully. His tired and sad blue eyes watched your hands move carefully to not hurt him. You gently finished bandaging his hand and you threw the paper stuff away before putting the first aid away.

This had become a routine. After every mission, you would come over and heal him slowly. Sometimes on simple missions, he would purposefully get hurt just so you would come over and bandage him and stay with him. He enjoyed your company, he enjoyed you being there with him.

You came back into the room and Leon looked at you with a soft, sleepy smile. "Thanks..you help me you know..? Every time you help me I always feel a bit safer and...I can't thank you enough"

His voice was soft and raspy as he spoke softly. He looked up at you and he moved over in his bed. He patted the spot next to him with an uncharacteristically sheepish smile.

You laughed slightly and a warm smile spread on your face as you sat next to him on the bed. He put the blanket over you. Usually, he was the big spoon but after missions, you always held him.

He needed reassurance and love. He needed the feeling of being wanted and cared for. He hated having to always be strong and he hated always making decisions. Lord knows he made enough already during his mission. He just needed someone to hold him...and listen to him..and let him cry.

You opened your arms and he put his head onto your chest. He could feel your hands gently scratching his scalp softly. He could feel your other hand gently massaging the sore muscles on his back and his stiff neck. He let out a small sigh.

He was too tired to cry now. He just wanted to rest and relax..and that is exactly what you let him do.

You were usually his rock after the missions. You were the reason he fought to come home alive. You were his reason for everything.

And these moments solidified those thoughts, and that made them stronger every time.

His love for you was true...and he loved you a lot. That is one thing he knew he could count on. The simplicity of your love...your care...your everything.

His eyes softly closed as he could hear you softly humming. He always enjoyed your humming when he was tired and fragile. He could practically feel your concern. You were holding him like he was as fragile as a flower...as if one movement could break him.

He could feel your warmth and love with every tender movement your hand made as they massaged his back. He could feel the kindness and care in every gentle, loving scratch that blessed his clean and soft scalp.

He could hear the sounds of the rain still pattering against his window like earlier and he had a soft hazy smile form on his tired, injured face as he slowly but peacefully fell into a trance.

His arms were gently placed around your waist. His breaths were soft against you. His chest was pressed against your side.

He could feel you press a soft kiss on his head. He could feel your head laying on his. The weight really grounded him and made sure he knew you were there and that he wasn't in Spain...and that he wasn't alone.

He felt the fatigue from the mission slowly catch up to him again. He could feel his legs relaxing first. Slowly but surely his body relaxed into his bed. The soft pattering of rain against the window, the wind gently blowing, the soft rumbling of thunder...and then the soft sounds of your sleepy hums or the sounds of your soft breathing...

Comfort filled him as he finally felt peace..as he finally felt comfort..and he let sleep carefully overtake him as his body, and mind went to rest...forgetting about his trauma, his stress, and his pain.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. You get some rest now lovely, you need and deserve it🥰

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hargrove-mayfields · 1 year

Text

________

Steve traveled a few hours for this.

Robin and Dustin came with him, taking turns driving since neither of them really liked to, but there wasn’t much choice. They would’ve brought the boys’ mom, but going a few states away isn’t something Claudia can do with her job if she still wants to retire in a month.

She’d entrusted Steve and Dustin with her car and settled for car-pooling with Joyce to work until the boys and Robin got back.

He really appreciated that. This trip is a very big deal to him; a visit to literally the only place left in the country he can visit his decades long hyperfixation. The Rock-Afire Explosion, in all its horribly tacky 1980s glory. Settled today at an independent arcade restaurant.

There’s one closer to home, but it isn’t the right group. Some corporate sellout place that uses digital screens and shit. Another is closed off to the public unless he was going to pay way too much money to see his favorite characters barely functioning. So to West by god Virginia it is.

They made it, and have spent probably two hours straight at this literal wonderland. Robin and Dustin are mostly hanging out in the arcade portion, dishing out little golden tokens into skee-ball games and spinning wheels for tickets. Actual print tickets. Just when he thought this place couldn’t get better.

Steve though, he’s mostly been parked in front of the stage the entire time. A basket of chicken tenders later, even though the place is known for pizza- which Steve in his post ileostomy world can’t eat- he’s still not going anywhere.

Each and every time the show selector board lights up again, he’s wheeling his way over and choosing one from the draw. So far, he’s seen probably half of the whole show tape, happy stimming his way through each song and skit that he’d wanted so desperately to see in person ever since the last Showbiz Pizza closed in Indiana during his early childhood.

This time, when it comes back on to signal the cooldown is over, he’s beat to the draw.

A small boy of about 10 or 11 years old comes darting past in little light up sneakers, on tip-toes to reach where the buttons are mounted up on the wall. He’s got a mop of blonde curly hair on his head, where it’s longer in the back pulled into a tiny ponytail, with the band of some strap-on glasses tucked underneath.

Steve looks over his shoulder to see where the little guy came from, and sees a man who looks almost identical. But not just any. The one approaching him is someone he used to know, an old crush that got away.

Billy Hargrove in the flesh.

It’s been over thirty years. These days, Billy is inked from shoulder to wrist, even more tattoos peeking out from just under the v-neck t-shirt he’s wearing. His hair has lightened, probably from the California sun that darkened his freckles and added more to any uncovered spot of skin. Those pale, almost peachy colored curls don’t do much to hide the dark graying streaks.

Steve is the same way, a whole patch of greyish-brown blooming at the front of his hair, and crows feet by his undercast eyes. Aging hasn’t done him particularly well, not the way it has Billy. That is what he thinks at least, still never quite breaking out of his self-critical shell. His mom says he’s still charming at least.

Being love-sick all these years hasn’t helped though. He wonders what Billy will think of him now.

Billy who, with an absolutely adorable laugh, calls after his boy, “Mackenzie! You gotta wait your turn little dude!”

Steve rushes to insist, “Oh, no, he’s alright!” After all, he’s the grown ass man getting his entertainment from a group of cutesy animal robots.

If that little boy in his cute sneakers wants to have fun too, he’s not gonna be some gatekeeping elitist about it. Not when he sees the wristband on his little wrist that proudly declares his extra 21st chromosome. He recognizes the rainbow infinity on the beaded bracelet beneath that one too.

Steve gets it. Hyperfixations and special interests are pretty huge for him too. Mackenzie being so excited about the band he’s loved for so long is not something Steve would ever dream of squashing out.

Not even when the young boy takes to climbing up the side of Steve’s wheelchair.

Billy intervenes and picks him up right away though, “Hey, hey. We don’t touch that, Kenz. That’s his legs.”

Mackenzie’s slanted eyes get big, his little head whipping towards Steve to apologize, “Sowwy!”

But the little guy was so genuine and curious, there’s no way Steve could be mad about that, “It’s alright! Here, do you wanna push a button?”

Billy looks relieved that Steve didn’t start freaking out on his kid, motioning with a little nod of his head that it’s okay for Steve to take Mackenzie’s little hand and guide it towards one of the buttons.

Together, they choose a blue one. Steve’s already watched this specific show, but it’s one of his favorites since it involves all eight characters. For some reason, he hopes the kiddo really likes it too.

Nothing happens at first- the animatronics have to get air pressure back in them before they can start -so Steve takes the few seconds of delay to roll back to his table. It doesn’t really surprise him when the two friends he’s made join him. Father and son in swivelly red chairs at the table Steve parked beside.

When the lights come up on stage, Steve finds he doesn’t want to look right at the show and stare the way he usually does. Instead, he watches the wonder in Mackenzie’s deep and emotional eyes.

Kids like him don’t do much to hide their emotions, which is honestly a huge inspiration to Steve, who grew up masking and hiding his disability. Pretending isn’t fun, and even though he just met this little dude, watching him just be himself makes Steve happy too.

They’re both letting their hands flutter about by the time the first set is finished, the hiss of air signaling the animatronics are done until the next time.

Mackenzie whips around in his seat and all but shouts at his dad, “Baba, t’ey sang to me!!”

“I heard, buddy! Wasn’t that cool?” Billy enthuses back.

Little Mackenzie nods his head over and over, giggles replacing his words.

Surprisingly, to Steve at least, he then looks to Steve for his opinion too. There is so much trust and adoration in that look. He hasn’t seen that since Dustin was a kid way back when Steve had first been adopted.

Steve gives a thumbs up for some reason, “Yeah, it was awesome!”

He reassures the little boy, but Billy is looking more skeptical. Not judgemental or anything, just aware of the surprised tone in Steve’s voice.

Non-confrontationally, he informs Steve, “Just a heads up.. I might’ve told Kenzie we were friends. I saw you and I panicked.”

Yep. That explains it. The sheepish looks from Billy combined with the excitement from his son.

Steve is actually really flattered that someone he used to think was so cool would want to be his friend.

“Highschool bullshit aside, I always kinda wondered what it would be like being close with the Billy Hargrove.”

“Well I still have the same taste in music.” Billy announces, after a moment to think on important fun facts about himself.

It makes Steve chuckle softly, “This tacky pop is probably painful for you then.”

Billy shrugs it off, “Hey, I heard some Springsteen in there. And the Beatles always get a pass. I can get by on this.”

Suddenly Mackenzie gets impatient with them having their own little conversation, and tries to get Steve’s attention. He taps him gently first, then starts waving and curling his hands into shapes.

Steve recognizes the gestures Mackenzie is making as sign language, but he doesn’t understand a word of it. It’s one of those things he always wanted to learn, and wished he knew, but never sat down and dedicated to. His communication board was way easier for non verbal days.

His confusion must be clear, because before he can even say anything, Billy starts acting as translator, “He wants to know your favorite member of the band.”

“Oh that’s easy! I love Beach Bear. His surfer theme and his curly blonde hair are so cool!” The answer is easy for Steve. He doesn’t mention the part where the character has always reminded him of someone his heart long yearned for.

Mackenzie seems to explode with happiness anyways, butterfly hands going faster than Steve can even finish his sentence. He guesses that’s his favorite too.

The excitement takes over totally, just then Makenzie taking off running unexpectedly.

Billy is up out of his seat so quick, jogging past his little one and intercepting him before he can complete his mission. It’s obvious Mackenzie had wanted to jump onto the stage, instead having to crash into his fathers open arms.

Before the little guy can get upset, Billy turns it into a hug. He’s so gentle, his hold on his boy loose, not crushing like the prone restraints Steve grew up with.

This is teaching through love, not fear. Steve may have just learned something about love himself if the way his heart skips a beat is any indication. He tries not to tear up.

Billy cups his hand real soft on the back of Mackenzie’s curly head, advising him, “Please don’t run off like that, baby. You could get hurt.”

“Sowwy.” Mackenzie apologizes, almost automatically.

Once again, Billy takes action to make sure his son isn’t feeling confronted or yelled at, “It’s okay, bud. You’re doing a really good job today, buddy. Daddy’s proud.”

With that, he carries him back over to the show selector to press one of the buttons that has now since lit up again, choosing a show with help from Steve through a series of pointing and lighthearted laughter from the trio.

They end up picking yet another one that Steve already heard, but Mackenzie clearly hadn’t, so Steve feels okay leaning aside with Billy and chatting while the boy dances and enjoys the show in close range.

“You’re really good with him.” He compliments softly, not just impressed but super enthralled

Instantly Billy’s face lights up with a smile, “Thanks, Steve. It’s just been me and him, I’m trying to fix a lot of shit his mom put into his head.”

Steve is going to say something, but Billy gets bashful, and interrupts it, “Sorry. Trauma dump.”

“No, it’s fine. I definitely get it. My uh.. my mom was the same way, you know.” Steve admits, to make Billy feel less embarrassed about it.

“Here, here.” Billy bumps their shoulders together, a weirdly intimate interaction, one that most people would be too afraid to do lest they break poor paralyzed Steve (not going to happen).

“It’s hard. I love my kid. More than the fucking world. I flew hours to this place just to let him be happy. But goddamn it’s not easy to unravel the shit that was done to me. To him too.”

“Listen, that happy, sweet little boy that ran over to me isn’t afraid. He’s not hurt, or scared, or hiding from anything. You’re doing great.” Steve compliments, all genuine.

His dream of six little nuggets of his own might not be something he’s going to have these days, but he admires Billy for his family. Not just because of his crush either. There’s always been a side to Billy that was so emotional and tender, and he’s amazed at how easily Billy can use that for good.

A lot has changed, but not really. Steve just wonders what Billy thinks of the fact Steve hasn’t made strides in growing a family or becoming some successful mogul.

Apparently he isn’t appalled, because he’s blushing as pink as Steve has probably been all day, as he says, “Thanks, Steve.. I needed that.”

And then there’s nothing left to say. Steve opens his mouth once, then closes it again, too overwhelmed to think of anything. All he wants to do is blab about how he’s been in love with his old rival the whole time.

The pause in conversation isn’t silent, between Mitzi Mozzarella singing her little mechanical heart out, kids laughing about something fun or crying about not getting the prize they wanted, and various machines begging to be played. But it feels intimate anyways.

A moment for just Billy and Steve, in all their nearing middle-aged glory.

It’s Billy who starts things back up, after checking that Mackenzie is getting enough to drink for all the moving he’s doing, “So. D’you really think blonde surfer guys are cool?”

“Maybe.” Steve goes along with it, seeing the opportunity to flirt in the way Billy held onto that one small moment, and tugging hard on that red string of fate, “They definitely get bonus points for having cool tattoos and being good parents, I’d say.”

Billy’s face looks absolutely frazzled, eyes big and smile all crooked and wobbly. And then he laughs, a loud, hearty laugh that has butterflies going through Steve’s whole chest, “Looks like you finally beat me at my own game, H.”

So they have been flirting.

In celebration of not reading the situation wrong, Steve turns it up ten more, leaving a locationally relevant move for Billy on purpose, “Do I get a prize?”

Of course the prize isn’t a stuffed toy or a handful of bubblegum, but rather, a kiss. A sweet, shy kind of kiss that has them bumping their noses together by accident. It’s all they can really get away with, considering where they are, but it’s enough. A thousand words in one chaste press of their lips together. It’s how Steve knows right away this was meant to be all along.

For what could have been several more hours they sat and talked, just the two of them in their little corner of the restaurant, occasionally taking breaks to go play a game, or take Mackenzie to the bathroom. In that time, they go from practically strangers, to having agreed to live together.

See, Billy and MacKenzie actually bought one way tickets. The California cost of living was way too much for single dad finances, and they had plans to settle in a rental trailer park, after a tour of a few states around the area, doing cheap stuff to make it seem fun. Like they weren’t searching for a place to live.

No way was Steve going to let Billy and his disabled kid be homeless in their rental car. Absolutely not.

He sent Claudia a text, and she said instantly she’d be getting Dustin's old room in order to house Mackenzie, and Steve could share his room with Billy. The situation is one plenty of people have already criticized, saying Steve at forty something is too old to be living with his adoptive mother. Adding a alternative queer man and his kid with down’s syndrome to the mix was destined to be the talk of the town, just as it was when Dustin moved out into an apartment with Lucas and Erica.

The fact is, he doesn’t care.

Steve hasn’t done babysitting since he was paralyzed in his twenties, but he’s more than happy to watch Mackenzie while Billy works. As soon as he saw him he felt like family, and Billy agrees Steve and he are soulmates. To him, this is just completing part of him that anguished and mourned and longed for so long.

The three of them together with Steve’s mom and caregiver, sounds like a dream to him.

“Who wants funnel cake!?” Robin appears out of nowhere, two greasy paper baskets in hand. But she freezes, “Wait a second- Hargrove?”

Okay, so there is a lot to catch her up on. Steve is more than happy to tell the story of rediscovering Billy, his beautiful son, and their long-lost love for each other.

_______

#harringrove #billy x steve #billy hargrove #older Harringrove #disabled steve harrington #dad billy hargrove #steves hyperfixations are my hyperfixations #brothers steve and dustin #platonic soulmates Robin and Steve #that carpet photo is my photo of the actual place I write about here #had to be super edited though because it’s very old and not bright or neon anymore

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younmexreaders · 5 months

Text

~~ Finis x Reader 18+ ~~

Someone put a hit out on you and you learn that your hitman isn't very willing to kill you. But he's willing to give you a good time.

Fem Reader/Finis OC | 2.8k words

Includes:

Monster with teeth for face

Femdom

Oral sex

Guns

Lots of tongues

Through the silent, corrupted building there was barely a sound. The frantic flutter of a trapped bird’s wings, but nothing more. You rested against a wall while hidden away in the building. You panted, sweat beading on your brow and racing down your face. You didn’t know how long you had been hiding. It felt like forever. Your heart raced in your chest. You flinched at every noise that broke the silence. That monster could be anywhere. Lurking. Looking for you.

Your heart raced in your chest. You flinched at every noise that broke the silence. That monster could be anywhere. Lurking. Looking for you.

You had no idea how he could be so quiet. Surely he had to breathe at some point or something? You peered around the wall and searched the doorways and boxes for any sign of him.

A gunshot shattered the silence and you threw yourself backwards to protect yourself. The bullet glancing off the corner of the wall. It came from somewhere behind you. You slid with your back against the wall down a hall nearby. You tore down spiderwebs with your face as you ducked into one of the many rooms and looked for a way out. The window here was boarded up. You huffed in frustration and tugged on the boards.

The wood groaned against the strain of your effort. You tugged with all your might. Finally, the board came loose and you flung it aside. You tried the next one, prying it and hissing with effort. Another board tossed aside with a loud clatter. You could already feel the breeze and smell the air getting less musty. You needed a moment to breathe the coming fresh air before you could pry more of the wood off. Your hands already hurt.

You felt a presence and you froze.

A gun cocked behind you. You were stiff. Hoping that by staying still you would somehow disappear. Silence took the building once more. His patience grew thin and you could hear one set of teeth clack shut. The other followed after another moment of silence.

“Turn around,” he ordered. You kept your arms tight against your sides. Turning slowly to face the hit man as you were directed. A gun was in your face. A huge set of teeth embedded in a dark gray face met your gaze. You felt a horrid sinking in your gut at the sight of him. He was silent as you two faced each other. He slid open his maws one after the other to reveal a solitary eye resting on a wide tongue. It pierced you with it’s unblinking gaze, the tongue shifting in his mouth as he studied you.

You knew this man by reputation only. Finis. The hand of death. Everything you heard of him told you he was ruthless. Never thinking twice about his marks. You never thought you’d be on this end of his gun. You were once in the organization, delivering marks to him and other assassins. You kept your head down and did your job.

You left… your conscious no longer able to accept all the death you had an indirect hand in. And they couldn’t let you live. It was inevitable they'd send someone to kill you.

You just couldn't believe it'd be him.

“What do you know about the BOTE Project?” He demanded.

“T-the what?”

“You heard me. Tell me everything you know.”

You blinked in surprise and shook your head. You couldn’t begin to grasp what he was talking about. He scrutinized you and grumbled at your lack of an answer. He holstered his gun and grabbed your collar, pressing you up against the wall.

“Tell me. Now.”

You shook your head again, closing your eyes tightly and grabbing his wrist. You were trembling too much to pry his hand off of you.

“There’s no point in disposing of you. Especially if they order it,” Finis’s eye never sat still, rolling and bouncing on his wide tongue, “but if you know nothing then I’ve wasted my time.”

“Y-you’re going to let me live?” You asked in a small voice, furrowing your brow as you tried to keep his gaze.

“I have no reason to kill you. You’re just caught up in this shit like the rest of us.” Finis sighed, dropping you. You landed a little rough and leaned on the wall, watching him as he stepped away from you, massaging his… temple? He was clearly frustrated, closing his inner set of teeth and leaning on the door frame.

“W… what is this “shit” anyways?” You murmured.

“It’s best you stay out of it. Whatever you got close to, they don’t want you getting wise. You will be presumed dead when I return so… stay low and get out of here.” Finis said, waving a hand at you dismissively. You were still shaken, almost too shaken to move. You simply didn’t understand, but your lack of understanding would keep you alive if you would just leave.

Why can’t you leave?

You watched him as he leaned on the door frame, his head down and his jacket straining on his wide shoulders. He rubbed the back of his neck, groaning softly as he tried to figure out his next move. You couldn’t help but watch him, that tremble of fear shaking you as you peered on in silence.

This man was ruthless. A killer with no conscious.

Why would he spare you?

“I… I don’t know where I’d go. My life is here.” You finally stammered. Finis looked over his shoulder at you, teeth open a crack to allow his eye to return your gaze. You felt a jolt go through you. A twinge of fear and concern.

“… I guess I forget how much a life means to most people.”

You furrowed your brow and approached him, placing a hand on his back. You swallowed your fear and gently pat his shoulder. You had so many things you wanted to ask him. And when you left to hide away, you wouldn’t have the chance to ask again. Best case scenario, you’d never see him again at all. You steeled yourself and brushed his jacket smooth.

“How much does life mean to you?”

Finis scoffed and shook his head, pulling away from you.

“Don’t do that.” He said, his voice rough and cold. You flinched, taking your hand back and stepping away. There was an uneasy silence. Neither of them moving. Finis and you both were lost in thought. A conflicting interest between you both.

You were too curious about him just to leave. Everything you heard about this supposed monster was crumbling the longer you stuck around unharmed in his presence. His gentle words in that rough tone. The way his intimidating appearance softened when you were not his enemy. His merciful actions despite his ruthless reputation.

“You… You’re different from the other assassins.” You said. Finis finally turned to face you. His expressions were unreadable. Manipulating the two mouths lined with large teeth into something of a quirked grimace. He didn’t have a response to that, but you had his attention.

You continued, “you’re intimidating, sure, but you have some mercy. That’s more than I’d expect from the other killers.” You kneaded your hands in your pockets. Was this rude? To tell him that he was soft, or at least softer than you’d expected, must have been rude. You knew you should stop talking, but you couldn’t.

"You’re not how I thought you’d be."

"How you were told I’d be," Finis corrected you sharply. He turned his face towards the ground. He was contemplative. Quiet. Almost ashamed. He held out one of his hands. You could see the coarseness of his palms before he clenched his fist.

"I was. Once. Then something broke."

"Having mercy doesn’t mean you’re broken..."

"I'm an animal that won't hunt. A gun that won't kill. In that way, I'm broken."

Your words meant little to him. What you thought didn’t matter. But you wanted him to know that someone somewhere didn’t expect him to be what he didn’t want to be. After all, he was just someone wrapped up in something awful. He didn’t choose to be here either.

“Finis, I don’t think you’re broken.” You said softly. He sighed sharply, shaking his head. You inched your hand up to his face, fighting against the tremble that shook your fingers. Gently, you cupped his jaw, brushing your thumb over his teeth and swallowing hard.

He could feel your trembling. It wasn’t hard to, you were like a leaf in a windstorm. Finis exhaled, his outer teeth slowly shutting and his shoulders drooping. He was reluctant to relax, but your touch melted him and he leaned into your hand. He slid his rough fingers over your hand. Finis was so tired. It took a stranger to show him any form of comfort. As sad as that was, he needed it.

You both stood silently, allowing the moment a chance to breathe.

“Why would you stay?” With both sets of teeth shut, Finis’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I… want to offer some help. For sparing me.” You said, matching his tone. His hesitation spoke more than his words could say. He couldn’t fathom your gentleness. He didn’t deserve your concern. He didn’t deserve anyone’s concern. Or care. Or comfort.

He deserved nothing.

“I don’t want your help.”

“Then how can I show you my gratitude?”

“You don’t have to. All I did was disobey orders. You don’t need to give me any thanks.” Finis shook his head. He stepped away from you, trying to avoid your touch. You lowered your hands, folding them before you.

“You need someone who will stay with you.”

The silence fell over you both again. The only noises beside your breath was the cityscape outside. Cars, distant shouting. Finis and you faced each other. The short distance between you felt like a canyon. Both of you moved slowly, adjusting your weight on your feet as Finis ground his teeth. He had so many questions. You did too. But neither of you wanted to pry any deeper.

No… you both had something different in mind. Something that was nagging at your chests. That was so impulsive and intrusive, but neither of you could fight it any longer.

You and Finis wrapped your fingers together, holding hands and pulling each other closer. It was like a dance, the way you both inched closer until your chests pressed together. His first set of teeth opened. Then the next. His wide open maw big enough to fit your whole face. His eye was focused on you in a way that made you freeze. You were unnerved greatly by the golden iris piercing your soul.

Your hands slowly unraveled from each other, your trailed your fingers up his chest and he held your hips. He had a chain around his neck, hidden by his jacket. You let your mind wander while you looked at it. Part of you wanted to tug on the chain and the other part of you was too entranced to tell you better. You gripped the chain and yanked, pulling Finis down to your level.

He choked out an involuntary groan. He slathered his tongue against your cheek, his hot breath billowing over your face. It was slimy and wet, and the way his tongue pressed into every crevice it found made you shudder. But the disgust was minimal. You wanted his tongue on you. You wanted more.

You kept a tight hold on his chain necklace, hooking your fingers on his deep v-neck collar and tearing through the material. It was surprisingly easy to tear through. It was old and well worn.

His chest was broad, scarred with bullet wounds, and soft. As hard as Finis appeared, he had a slight squish that made him so lovely to touch. You smiled, kissing along his neck and feeling down his stomach.

“Take your clothes off for me.” You purred.

Finis hesitated a small moment before leaning back and pulling everything off. His jacket, the shreds of cloth, pants, everything was tossed aside. You smiled as he took everything off, revealing his toned arms and thick thighs. He had more scars littering his flesh.

“You look delicious…” You eyed him with great interest.

“Let’s see how you look.” He said, throaty and quiet. He grabbed your shirt and tore it off in one smooth movement, dropping it aside and doing the same with the rest of your clothes.

“And?” You smirked.

“Gorgeous.” Finis narrowed his teeth and sucked on your neck. An approximation of a kiss. You tugged on his chain, making him groan and press against you. You forced him against the wall, riding your leg up on his hip. He gripped your thigh, sliding his other hand down to the small of your back to hold you in place.

You rubbed against him. Sliding your pussy against his flaccid piece until it stiffened and stood against you. You panted softly, feathering your lips across his collarbone. You wrapped your free arm around his torso. Finis groaned softly. His breath billowing down on you. He tightened his hold on you and lined his cock up with your entrance, threatening to press inside.

You tugged on his chain and he froze.

“No. Not yet.” You said breathy.

“Then when?”

“When I say so.”

Finis grumbled, but he obeyed. You smirked. Of course he’d be rather good at following orders. But you expected he’d push back against you a little harder. No matter. A lack of resistance will lead to a much smoother evening. You pulled him along to the sealed boxes of discarded materials, picking his jacket off the floor and setting it on the surface to you could sit a little more comfortably.

You crossed one leg over and smiled up at him.

“Kneel.” You ordered.

Finis did so, lowering to his knees before you.

The dusk light filtered through the window, casting an orange glow over you both while illuminating the billowing dust. You looked divine in your position above him. The lighting gave you an ethereal glow, enhancing the playful glittering in your eyes. Finis could barely take his eye off of you.

“Gorgeous…” He muttered softly, his hands traveling up your legs and kneading your thighs. You raised a brow at him and tilted your head.

“You know you need to wait.”

“There’s no point in waiting. I need you.” Finis whined, refusing to pull away from you. His fingers dug into your thighs, pulling you closer to him. “Let me have you.”

“You’re so impatient.” You giggled softly and uncrossed your legs, allowing him access to your slit. Finis rolled his eye into his cheek for safe keeping and dragged his tongue along your slit. It was too wide and thick to dig into you, despite all it’s efforts. He dug at you with his wet muscle, growling at himself for his inability to drink you in.

“So very impatient.” You murmured between moans. You gripped his chain tightly and rested a hand on his head. His lapping was so desperate. As if he was trying to reach the gooey center of a piece of candy. He thought you tasted just as sweet too.

Finis started tracing up your torso, licking you until he reached your face. He had no lips for you to meet and your need to find them made you dance your lips over his tongue as if you might find them. He propped his knee up on the box and slid his hand down your stomach, petting your moistened slit.

His thick, rough fingers pressed against your sensitive little nub, circling it slowly and hanging his tongue in your face. You kissed the wet muscle without another thought. His circling fingers wound your coil, the hot, moist breath billowing over your face drove your need further.

You grazed your fingers along his broad chest and his soft stomach, tracing down to his cock and rubbing it slowly. Your hands worked in sync, massaging each other as your heavy, lustful breaths filled the silence of the room. Finis rolled his hips, grinding against your hand. Pre-cum leaked from his needy cock, coating your hand. You stroked him faster, driven by the tightening coil within your stomach. You made lascivious noises, trying to press yourself closer to him as your hands worked each other over. The heat rose between you, your eyes winding shut as you bucked your hips into his hand. The groans grew louder until you both grunted sharply in climax. His cum coated your hand and thighs, quickly cooling on your skin. Your hips slowed until still and his hand pulled away from your dripping slit.

Your panting filled the room, using your clean hand to push your hair out of your face.

"Alright... don't say a word about this." You muttered, cleaning yourself up and pulling your clothes back on. Finis nodded, clothing himself as well and turning to leave.

"Not a word." He agreed, leaving quickly and silently. Hopefully he would buy you some time so you could get out of the city. But you wouldn't forget the encounter for a long time.

#younme #oc x reader #original character #x reader #reader insert #female reader #monster x reader #monsterfucker #smut

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pr1ncesspopstar · 1 year

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Time in a Bottle - FFXIV Write 2023 - Day 26: Last

Ao3

Mist curled off the cobble paths that defined the small settlement of Revenant’s Toll. A constant veil of rain cloaked Mor Dhona as far as the eye could see, stretching the storm’s grasp over the edge of the horizon every which way. Water droplets skipped and sang with glee across the person-less city, warding all to stay inside until the rain was done with its fun, else they get drenched.

Halditar and Estinien lounged in the Seventh Heaven’s doorway, staring out into the haze. The awning was only just enough to protect the dragoon and once-dragoon from an impromptu shower, the humid air from inside flowing out as the cool air flowed in.

“So much for pushing off early.” The brusk man hid a sigh under his breath. His companion had her eyes locked skyward, staring at the endless sea of gray above. The sun was completely covered, all signs of time hidden behind the day.

“It’s not going to end until tomorrow. Seems we’re stuck here then.” She agreed. Despite what most would say was dour weather, no one seemed to mind or fret. The shade cast by the sky was comfortable, and the temperature pleasant. The Warrior of Light closed her eyes and just listened for a moment.

The sound of rain hitting the leaves of the trees, branches weighed down and tapping against the metal lamp posts musical. Not far off, Moondrop the chocobo whistled from the stables, eager to roll about in the rain and clean her feathers. If she had a restless night’s sleep, Halditar could have imagined herself drifting off. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of fresh water and earth. Somewhere, lightning must have cracked the sky as a low rumble shook through the earth.

“I’m going to head in. Try not to disappear as soon as I turn my back.” She asked the dragoon, patting his shoulder as she turned away from the open door. The tavern was empty of all but a few scholars and the Wandering Minstrel, whose harp’s song stood kindly alongside the crackle of the fire and pen on paper of the few guests that filled seats. A sound that haunted the entire building, even the Rising Stones as Halditar walked down into the sanctum.

Another song joined the bard’s, Tataru humming as she penned in a ledger, fingers occasionally clacking abacus beads together as she sorted through their finances. The roegadyn kept her gait as light, so as not to disturb the peace.

Everyone had taken to their own activities while sharing the common space. Thancred and F’lhaminn spoke softly over warmed cider, the smell of apple and spice mingling nicely with the ozone left by the storm. Urianger’s star globe cast small reflections of golden star shapes on the walls, cards laid out before him on the table in some sort of reading. Alisaie and Krile were across from him, conversing about things regarding fate and magic and aether in hushed voices. The couches had been co-opted by Y’shtola, G’raha, and their many, many books. Shtola was quietly spilling over them still, her own cup of cider warming her hands, while Raha had at some point drifted off into a light slumber. He wasn’t alone, though. Thistle, the sneaky bullpup that she was, had wormed her way happily into the miqo’te’s lap and was snoring atop one of his open tomes. And-

“Halditar, over here.” Alphinaud called the warrior of light over softly, so not to break the concentration of others. She approached where he sat, grinning as she saw the familiar play mat in front of him.

“Finally picking up my favorite hobby, I see.” She said and looked over the triple triad board. He has a few card sets, complete with matching, organized sleeves like some of the more refined gambler types she ran into when wasting time at the Saucer.

“Indeed. I figured it’d be nice to test my skills with a new type of strategy game. Though,” the young man grinned, a bit of a fire in his eyes as he looked up at the hero he knew was a loyal friend. “It’s not as challenging to play against one’s self instead of a real opponent…”

“Oooh, you’re gonna regret tempting me, boy. If you think I’ll go easy on a beginner, you’re in for a rough time.” Halditar didn’t hesitate to claim the seat across from him and pulled out her own multiple decks, worn and a bit creased, but lovingly played. Alphinaud grinned and leaned, laying out his cards with a single swift moment.

“Please don’t. I want my victory to feel satisfying.” He challenged back, and the game was afoot.

Thunder roared again, a low rumble that warmed all to stay where they were. The Warrior of Light saw no problem at such a request, the sense of time slipping away as she was enraptured in the game and the surrounding environment. As if it was a spell, the rain conjured this small moment of peace for all the Scions basking in and enjoy sharing company in parallel activities. A time that couldn’t last, but a memory that certainly would.

#ffxiv #ffxiv wol #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #ff14 #my writing

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ryo-maybe · 2 years

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The door's cold steel screeches ever so slightly as it recedes into the wall, like a blade pushing through an armor's fatal seam.

It reminds you of the lacquered frames back home, and the first human you stabbed to death. The cinders of both now blanket the fields, the green luster forever tainted in your memory by ashen gray and the dull hue of your metallic prison. Whenever your gaze doesn't linger on the venom dripping quietly from Chiyo's gelid expression or the angry sparks exploding out of Tanemitsu's gritted teeth, you almost feel as if you can see the hue of your skin blending with the floor's solid cobalt.

But then that heavy-cut door parts completely, and the Garleans shove you unkindly into a world of brand new colors.

"Hoooh. Some primo cuts the butcher's sent today!"

A mountain in the shape of a woman speaks, hers the first pair of eyes to bear down on your stumbling self. The others do not tarry to welcome you with looks sharp and fingers hovering above weapons sharper still. Save for one - the mountain-woman's mirror, his grin a specular reflection of hers, if not for the fact it is timidly turned upside-down.

Silence lingers, steeped in an understanding shared only by the armored soldiers and those not clad behind the anonmity of those same masks. The former leave, shutting the door behind you - again, it screeches unpleasantly - while the latter wait, tense cords of an instrument waiting for a finger foolish enough to pluck a letal note out of it. And what else would Tanemitsu be, if not the fool you know him to be?

"W-we're the new recruits! Soldiers! Just like y--"

The dagger lodges itself neatly into the board hanging by the locked door, its hilt catching the bead of sweat rolling down the scales of Tanemitsu's trembling cheek. Between his horn and the blade, less than a hair's breadth. You turn to look at the Elezen sitting at the edge of a cluttered table in time to see her scoff.

"Nah, nah, you got it all wrong, kiddo. No soldiers here."

She stares at Tanemitsu. At Chiyo's legs, trembling as she wordlessly stands between them. At you. That's when she decides to hop off, crossing half the room in what to you appears as a single stride. Hands on her hips, lined with more knives, she stares at you with narrowed red eyes. Reflected in them, your face seems to be floating in a pool of vermillion. It's the first time you've seen your reflection in weeks.

This is my face now, you think, idly.

"Oi. Wake up, princess. You and your pals are Dreamers now."

#rinnequest #saw a prompt and next thing I know it's 20 mins from 3 am fml

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attic-arch · 11 months

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In summary, Atticarch interior designers in Bangalore have the expertise and knowledge to help you create a luxurious decor for your small space while still making the most of the available square footage. They can provide customized design solutions, suggest colors and materials, create a lighting plan, and pay attention to every detail to make your space look and feel luxurious.

#interior designers in Bangalore #Atticarch

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vancouverkitchenrenovation · 2 years

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Traditional Kitchens Designs

The traditional kitchens designs require a lot of details to complete. The color scheme, countertops, cabinetry style, and flooring are just a few examples. Choosing the right materials for your kitchen is important, as well. Here are some ideas for traditional kitchens: Black and white cabinets, natural stone countertops, in-frame shaker style cabinets, light beige painted walls, and more.

Black and white kitchen cabinets

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Natural stone countertops

For kitchens with a traditional design, natural stone countertops are a classic choice. They can either complement or contrast the perimeter counters. In some cases, they can even create a unique focal point in the room. However, if you’re looking for a more modern look, you may want to consider an alternative.

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Light beige painted walls

Light beige painted walls are a classic, warm color. They will warm up a room instantly, and they make great bases for accent colors. Beige paint colors often have a slight hint of gray, which makes them sometimes referred to as “greige.” Some popular Benjamin Moore beige paint colors include Early Morning Mist, November Rain, and Revere Pewter.

Light beige paint is a versatile color that can work well in a traditional kitchen. It adds warmth and brightness, and it looks great with white trim. The classic color can be changed with ease without affecting existing finishes. You can go with a softer shade of this color, like Agreeable Gray by Sherwin-Williams.

Yellow stone back splash tiles

While a traditional kitchen may not use yellow stone back splash tiles, this material can still add a stylish accent to a kitchen. A kitchen is the center of the home, so it is crucial to make it look stylish and appealing. This room has evolved into more than a practical space, and the right design blends practicality with personal requirements. If you are looking for a unique and attractive kitchen backsplash, you can check out the thousands of pictures available online.

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Natural stone backsplash

When you’re re-decorating a traditional kitchen, you can choose a natural stone backsplash to create a striking focal point. Stone is a beautiful and timeless material that adds charm to any space. It is also durable and can be used in a variety of ways, from rustic to sleek and contemporary.

When you’re installing a stone backsplash, keep in mind that it will require more time than other types of backsplash materials. For instance, you may want to consider sealing the stone backsplash so that it can last for years without damage. This will make it easier to clean and maintain. When installing a stone backsplash, be sure to install it over the countertop, but not right on top. This will prevent acidic cleaners from damaging the stone.

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Frequently Asked Questions

How can a kitchen redesign affect the home’s market value?

A kitchen remodel can improve your home’s market value by as much 20%. A major remodel can cost between $40,000 and $150,000. It’s important to determine how much money you have available to pay and whether you will see a return.

A kitchen design that appeals broadly to buyers is essential if you intend on selling your home in the near future. Stick with neutral colours and classic styles to avoid turning away potential buyers.

If you’re not planning on selling your home anytime soon, you have more freedom to personalize your kitchen. You should think about the purpose of your kitchen and what you want it look like. Are you a frequent host? If so, you might consider a layout with plenty of prep space for guests and ample room for them. Do you like to cook? You may be willing to splash out on more expensive appliances.

No matter what your plans are, a kitchen remodel could be a great way increase your home’s worth. You will get the best results if you do your research and choose a trusted contractor.

What should I do if I need a new kitchen?

Start by making a list of all your needs and wants. This will help you communicate your needs to potential kitchen designers, remodelers, and contractors.

Budget: How much will you spend on your new kitchen in the next year?

– Size: What is the size of your kitchen? Do you need to expand your kitchen or reduce its size?

Layout: How do you arrange your kitchen? Do you think it is necessary to modify the layout of your kitchen.

– Appliances. Which appliances should you have in your new Kitchen?

– Storage: How will you store all your food and supplies in your new kitchen?

– Style: What type of kitchen do you desire? Traditional, contemporary, rustic, etc.

– Colors – What colors would you like to see in your new kitchen’s design?

You can now start planning your kitchen remodel after you’ve taken into account all these aspects.

Is a white kitchen a good idea for Vancouver’s climate?

Vancouver homeowners love white kitchens. This is because they are brightening up the space and creating a modern appearance. It’s important to use natural elements like wood, as we don’t have much sunlight in Metro Vancouver.

In the kitchen, where should pots or pans go?

Pots and pans should be kept in the cupboard above your stove. This keeps them in reach when you need them. It also makes your kitchen counters look neat and clean. You may also want to invest in a pot rack to help keep your pots and pans organized and within easy reach.

What should I do when I’m planning a kitchen remodel?

Whether you’re remodelling an existing space or designing a dream kitchen from scratch, there are plenty of decisions.

Before you start, take some time to look online for inspiration. Look online for inspiration photos. Take notes on design ideas. With a pen, paper and a pencil, draw out where each element will be located.

Now, think about how you can improve upon these spaces. What could you make better? What would be your contribution? If you want to get creative, why not ask someone who knows what she’s talking about?

Once you know what you want to achieve, it’s now time to start. Start with the basics. Get rid of all unnecessary clutter. Take out appliances that aren’t used often. Replace worn-out fixtures with new ones.

Next, locate tight spaces in your kitchen. This means finding places where there isn’t room for storage or countertops. Then think about how to make these places more useful. These spots could be turned into wine cellars, or pantries.

Lighting is an important consideration. Is there a particular spot that could use more light? Perhaps a wall light would brighten a dark corner.

After you have made your list of improvements it is time to start the fun part: implementing them.

You don’t have to know everything right away. Just keep working until you’ve got it all figured out. Don’t forget to enjoy it every day!

What are some of the cons of an open concept kitchen?

Privacy is the biggest problem. An open-concept kitchen means guests can see the mess. Open-concept kitchens are great for those who love to cook. However, guests might find it difficult to keep their hands clean. A kitchen that is open to the outside can be difficult for cleaning if there aren’t designated eating and cooking areas. A kitchen that is open-concept may not work for you if there aren’t enough square footage.

Statistics

Experts also recommend setting aside 20 percent of your budget for surprises, including unpleasant demolition discoveries. One is water damage, the electricity that is not up to code, or other budget-spiking gotchas. (hgtv.com)

“We decided to strip and refinish our kitchen cabinets during a heat wave with 90-plus-degree temperatures and 90 percent humidity in a house with no air conditioning. (familyhandyman.com)

Your most significant cost investment for a kitchen remodel will usually be cabinets, typically comprising 25 percent of your budget. (hgtv.com)

It’s a fantastic thing about most home improvement projects: no matter the job. It often seems like the last 20% is the most difficult. (familyhandyman.com)

This is rather grim, but according to Business Insider, 12 percent of couples consider getting a divorce while renovating their home! (familyhandyman.com)

External Links

familyhandyman.com

Do’s and Don’ts in a First DIY Subway Tile backsplash Installation by Family Handyman

Create an Open, Craftsman-Style Kitchen (DIY)

remodeling.hw.net

2021: Value vs. Cost

Cost vs. Value Project: Minor Kitchen Remodel

forbes.com

Amazing Kitchen Remodel Ideas That Will Refresh Your Home

homeguide.com

2022 Kitchen Remodel Cost Estimator

Cost To Add A Room Per Square Foot

How To

How to design a Kitchen Layout

There is no one perfect kitchen layout. However, specific layouts work better in certain spaces. Here are some suggestions for designing a kitchen that is best suited to your space.

Start with the basics. First, determine what you require in your kitchen. Decide what can go without. You don’t necessarily need a large stove, oven, or other appliances if your cooking isn’t very extensive.

Take into account the traffic flow. The second step involves considering how you use the kitchen with your family and how traffic flows around the space. You’ll want to ensure enough room to move around freely without bumping into each other.

Maximize storage. The third step of maximising storage is in the kitchen. This goes for both food storage and cookware storage. You’ll want to ensure everything has a place and is easily accessible.

Integrate your style. Fourth, incorporate your style into the kitchen design. This includes everything including countertops and cabinets, flooring, and appliances. You can choose finishes and materials that reflect your personal style.

Partner with a professional. The fifth and final step is to work with a professional kitchen designer. They can help create a layout to meet all your needs.

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