#brown shag rug

[thedreamsareripped]

Living Room Enclosed

Example of a mid-sized classic formal and enclosed dark wood floor and black floor living room design with a stone fireplace, gray walls, a ribbon fireplace and a wall-mounted tv

[fleurducap]

Miami Master Bedroom An illustration of a large, modern master bedroom with a beige floor and gray walls that lacks a fireplace.

[bluedoveyellowsun]

Transitional Family Room in Chicago

[vintagehomecollection]

Better Homes and Gardens: Stretching Living Space, 1983

[renietan]

Atlanta Contemporary Living Room

An illustration of a mid-sized, modern, formal living room with beige walls, a fireplace but no television and a dark wood floor.

[djofficialreach]

Enclosed Family Room Atlanta Inspiration for a small modern enclosed medium tone wood floor family room remodel with a standard fireplace, a tile fireplace, a wall-mounted tv and gray walls

[rowbutt]

Dining Room in Salt Lake City Ideas for a medium-sized, rustic-style great room renovation without a fireplace and beige walls

[chasing-after-memories]

Farmhouse Living Room in Detroit Mid-sized cottage open concept living room design with formal dark wood floor and brown floor, gray walls, a wood stove, a brick fireplace, and no television.

[belinda-amy]

Enclosed (Houston)

[whattheheckfestival]

Traditional Bedroom - Bedroom

[francophilesuniverse]

Bedroom (Houston)

[shyniisparkles]

Basement - Walk Out

[elise-rosy-unicorn]

Seattle Formal Living Room

[kiteparty]

Family Room (San Francisco)

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter Map Twenty-Four

TW: NSFW, inappropriate use of handcuffs, angst

Tom picks you up from your shift, and you ride in silence. The uncomfortable, we need to talk, prickly silence that has your bones feeling weirdly placed and your teeth achy with unsaid words. His mouth and your mouth combined? Quiet between the two? Strange. You both know something’s up. Maybe even more than one something. 

When you get into your place, he goes to use the restroom, and you meander around cleaning a little bit—putting some dishes away and rearranging your coat rack and making sure your recently neglected plants aren’t dying dry deaths. 

“Sorry, guys,” you whisper, filling them up and eyeing the leaves for any browning spots, spraying the orchids’ tangled roots with water and a little plant food. You pause at the dark purple orchid from Julian, realizing there’s still a smear of your dried blood on the pot. Roses love to eat blood and bone. You’re not so sure about orchids. It’s hard not to think of Julian, when you look at the beautiful plant, but you can’t quite bring yourself to get rid of it yet. It’s not the orchid’s fault, after all.  

“You just keep getting cuter,” Tom says, smirking from the kitchen doorway. 

“They’re living things,” you reply, sticking your tongue out. 

“You know, I worked a case once where a lady had a lot of plants.”

You shoot him a raised brow. “Was she poisoning someone with one?”

He chuckles and shakes his head, that fast growing, uncut dark shag probably due for a haircut soon. Shame, you kinda like it a little longer. “See, it just makes me even more suspicious that you know that.” 

“Am I a suspect now, Officer Ludlow?” You ask, batting your eyelashes at him.

“Easy, Poison Ivy, don’t make me get the cuffs.” 

“Poison Ivy, really?” 

He shrugs. “What? She’s hot. You’re hot. You both love plants. Got that fiery temper.” Wink.

“And you’re what, Batman?” You crinkle your nose at the comparison. Bruce Wayne ain’t got nothin on Tom Ludlow. Plus, you were never a big fan. Now, Punisher, he’s someone you can admire.

“No. I’m a side character. Poison Ivy’s boyfriend.” 

Do not engage. Do not interact. Do not make eye contact. Did he just call himself… You haven’t had a boyfriend in what, years? Tom Ludlow? Boyfriend? Dating? Your brain might be short circuiting, a rattling tool box of metal getting zapped with a cattle prod, and you stand there, frozen, looking dumb for a good minute until you can compartmentalize and rationalize. 

Tom Ludlow hasn’t really left since that first night you invited him in. His clothes are in your dirty laundry, his shoes are sitting next to yours on the entryway rug, making your sneakers look like kids shoes in comparison, his amazing smell is on everything, his indent is on your bed. He’s just settled himself right in here, and you didn’t even notice. 

“What’s a throw down?” You ask, stupidly, suddenly, not sure why you pick that moment to inquire about this. 

To your credit, it does take him off guard and make him forget about the whole boyfriend thing… For now. “It’s a gun dirty cops carry. Something to throw away in case they shoot someone...unlawfully.”

“Is that…what you have on your ankle?” 

His frown is like a thunderhead, and he probably would have started yelling, if not for how tiny your voice sounded, and the big-eyed bunny look on your face. “No, baby. That’s my backup. In case I lose my other gun. Which, I have. Why are you asking me this?” 

Oh fuck, this was a bad, bad decision. Maybe you should mention the dating conversation again? You turn to face him, trying to seem less suspicious and probably just ranking yourself even higher on his list of suspects. “Brixton, that guy that interviewed me, said you fired it in the store.” 

Nice save—never mind, looks like you’ve personally signed Brixton’s death certificate yourself. You jump in to appease that hostile look curtaining over his face. “It's just..I feel like there’s something up, Tom. Something you’re not telling me?”

You’re such a hypocrite. 

“What does that have to do with my backup?” He asks, great fucking detective that he is, and you’re caught like a rabbit in a metal fox trap, ready to gnaw off its own leg just to get free. And maybe, judging by that suspicious look on his face, you should start digging in sooner rather than later.

“I don’t know, Tom.” You throw your hands in the air, maybe a little too dramatically. “I’m just trying to piece this whole thing together, y'know? And if you’re not telling me anything, how can I do that? I saw his face—the man who attempted to murder a cop in cold blood—and I’m scared.” None of that was particularly a lie, but you still feel bad for freaking out on him. 

You feel even worse, when his standoffish attitude melts immediately for you. “Shit. I’m sorry, baby, come here,” he says, holding out his arms to you. 

Once upon a time, with anyone else, you would be an ornery shit and refuse the respective olive branch. But with Tom…you melt too, and before you know it you’ve crossed the tiny kitchen to fill his arms. 

“You’ve taken this whole thing like such a champ, I fucking forget you’re not used to getting shot at,” he says to the top of your head. “M’sorry, baby. I’m working on figuring this all out. I promise you. I’ve got some leads. I gotta find a guy…” He shuts himself up out of habit, not used to sharing details of an ongoing investigation with a civilian. But then he seems to think better of it, considering you’re right in the fucking middle of it too. “I gotta find this guy who might know the shooters. I’m waiting on a call. Got a lead through an inmate in County.”

“Why would an inmate help you?” you mumble into the solid plane of his chest. 

“Because I put him there, and he’s not gettin’ out unless he gets me that name.”

You blink at that, craning your neck to look up at him. “Is that legal?” 

He looks down at you with that Come on look that makes you feel more than a little foolish. 

“Oh.”

You feel the rumble of his amusement from deep in his chest, more than hear it. 

“Is that…always how you really get things done?” you ask, at risk of being made to feel even dumber. “Like, are the official channels really that useless?”

“Pretty much, sweetheart. Learned it the hard way a long time ago. Too many bureaucrats in the LAPD. Not enough people actually willing to get the job done.”

With a long sigh you nod, utterly reluctant to vacate the depression between his pecs. You’re pretty sure it was made just for your head. 

You guess you're about to embark on some back channels of your own to keep him out of trouble. The thought of what Julian might have in store for you makes a shudder of revilement run through you. Tom cranes back to study you, those hawkish eyes narrowed. He knows something’s up. He’s too smart, and you can’t fathom how you’re going to trick him, even if it is for his own good.

You suppose your best bet is distracting him–so you stand on tip toe, and press your lips to his. 

***

He just will not drop it.

He drives you absolutely wild. To the edge of your sanity. To the brink of death. 

This man’s tongue should be considered a lethal weapon. It’s an absolute menace. 

It’s the best thing you’ve ever felt, yet you can’t help but think to yourself, this is how you die.

“Tom…” you beg. “It’s too much!”

You would have even tried to get up, to get away, to flee, you’re that desperate, but he’s been holding you down with those big beautiful hands, and you are just a quivering mess of a woman at his mercy. Plus, he’s got you cuffed to the post of your bed.

“You can cum anytime you want, sweet girl,” he tells you. “You know what I want to hear.”

“This is…interrogation…under duress.”

“Oooo, someone’s been studying up.”

“Hey, I know…stuff.”

He’s changed tactics, making slow, soft circles with his tongue, just shy of where you need him most. The keening whine it tears from your hoarse throat makes him chuckle against you; a deep, bone-melting sound that you think Satan could take some notes from. 

“You know what I want to hear.”

I’m yours.

“Torturing me into saying it won’t make it true.”

“I already know it’s true, sweetheart. Just want to hear you say it.”

You whimper, your head thrown back into the pillows. So keyed up yet exhausted, too stubborn for your own good. You sense Tom looking up at you, his cheek resting on the soft pillow of your inner thigh. 

“Scare you that much, baby?”

You have to try twice before you can find your voice, suddenly feeling like you downed a fat gulp of Mojave sand. “You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me.”

“Now?”

“No time like the present.”

He climbs your body, and you are relieved until he sheathes himself inside you, just like that, like this is the place where he belongs. You desperately try to grind against him, knowing you are so close to the edge, but he just pins you with his thick cock kissing your cervix and his elbows on either side of you. 

He kisses your forehead, and its all so tender you could cry.

“You know you’re safe with me?”

“I know.” You mean it, too, even if you sound pitiful.

He sweeps your hair from your face with gentle fingers, looking down at you with a little smile that wrecks your heart. It simply was not fair.

“Then tell me what’s going on.” You’re not sure if he means your neuroses in general, or your earlier almost-slip, or…who knows? Discussing any and all of it aloud terrifies you. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Finally, you just frown, and fall back on your favorite word of all time.

“No.”

Miraculously, he doesn’t get mad, like every other man you’ve ever known would have. He just seems to think you’re cute. “You know what?” He muses, tracing your collarbones and making you shiver, “I think,” he follows the dip of your skin, down between your breasts, then under, slow and soft, over your rib cage as you make little strangled gasps, attempting unsuccessfully to writhe—get him frustrated enough to move. “I think you like it when I tease all your worries away.” 

Why does that infuriate you even more? “This isn’t teasing.” Your whining delights him and humiliates you. “This is tortu-ah.” 

He has your pert right nipple tugged between two fingers, rolling the sensitive flesh against rough calluses. The sensation swells into your pussy, and she clenches, exacting her own form of vengeance on Tom, for once on the same side as you—the cum or die side. 

A breath of air hisses from between his teeth, and you grin up at him in triumph. Sure, you’re the one handcuffed to the bed being edged out of your mind, but you know underneath all that cool, collected facade this affects him just as much as it does you. 

“You haven’t seen torture yet.” He says, his smile turning malicious.

“What?” You pant. “Can’t help it that my pussy loves your cock so much, baby.”

He turns peach again, skin absolutely betraying his attitude, and you let loose a sharp giggle that turns to a groaning snarl when he pumps inside of you, slow, not enough. The rhythm he adopts after a minute or two of equally frustrating practice is made for your destruction; more frustrating than just holding him inside, unmoving. 

That languid squelching rub, the slow strokes that make your cunt flood and fatten with plentiful cum, yield to and accommodate its bulky visitor like a good little host should—all of it gets both of you gnashing your teeth and growling like beasts.

In this feral, viscous slide of your bodies, Tom takes your mouth instead of talking, teeth and tongue and spit. None of it would be pretty from an onlooker's perspective, you think, as he swallows the bottom of your face into his big jaws, but fuck, it’s just what you need from him while he works your cunt to a slow, brutal end. 

La petite mort, your brain thinks, surfacing from the sluggish black haze for a moment before you lose it entirely again to a violent, slow orgasm on just his cock. You barely feel the scratchy tickle of his stubble as he buries his face into your neck, biting and licking at your collar, and ending right along with you. 

“Trickster,” he mumbles, hips twitching in finality, length already softening and settling inside you. 

“Who me?” You giggle. 

“Minx,” he growls. 

“Never,” you tease. 

“One of these days I’m gonna get you to say it baby. Might as well just get it over with.” 

“Say what?” You ask, now just trying to piss him off. 

He nibbles the skin of your neck, and you giggle-flinch away. 

“I have to tickle you?” He asks. 

“Swear to God, Tom, I will kill you.” Then, you pout. “These cuffs are kinda uncomfy.” 

He sighs and unlocks you from your metal, cold bondage, then rubs the blood and warmth back into your wrists. “Can I ask you something?” 

You flick your head at him, curious, and push the sweaty hair from his forehead. “Yeah, of course.”

“Will you take a little vacation with me? After I’m done with this case? I’d like to take you somewhere. Just us. Anywhere you want. Beach, mountains. I know we’re already right next to the beach, but maybe one with calmer water? They have some nice little bungalows in Florida.” He’s cute, when he’s all rambling and shy and flustered. 

You lean up to kiss him, halting his nerves. “Yeah, I will.” 

“Really?” He asks, grin big and goofy and only missing a long tongue hanging from the side. 

He makes you laugh. The dichotomy of this man. God, you want to eat him. “Yeah. I have unused vacation time anyway. As long as you promise not to secretly be a serial killer.” 

He snorts, probably thinking of the same image that you are: Bull-in-a-china-shop, brutish, forceful, loud Tom trying to be sneaky and malicious in any capacity? It’s just not believable. What you see is what you get with this long, bronze man currently walking butt ass naked to the bathroom and retrieving a damp, warm towel for you to clean up with. 

***

“So, where do you wanna go?” He asks, once you're settled in his arms with the blanket wrapping you up. You think it’s just way too adorable, how he fusses over you. Pushes your hair back from your face, makes sure you’re adjusted and comfortable, makes sure your toes are covered, kisses your forehead. 

“I’ve never been to the mountains,” you suggest, nuzzling your face into his chest and inhaling, trying to memorize him—this moment. 

“Mountains it is,” he grins. “We’ll go hiking.” 

“Do you think we’ll see woodland critters?” You ask hopefully. 

“Don’t worry,” he soothes, “I’ll protect you.”

You laugh into his skin. “Tom, I want to see them. I’m not scared.” 

“What about, I dunno, bears?” 

“Bears are cute.” 

He gives you an incredulous look, as if you’ve really caught him off guard with that one. “You’re something else.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Am I gonna have to hold you back from trying to pet a 700 pound grizzly?” He asks, fingers playing with your shoulder blades. 

You pretend to think about it. “No, but maybe a raccoon….?” 

“Oh my god, go to bed,” he chuckles. “I’m rethinking the mountains.” 

“Oh c’mon!” 

It takes a good hour for you both to get tired enough to fall asleep. The witty banter keeps you awake, like you’re at a teenage slumber party with your best friend. It’s you that drifts off first, because if you don’t get your nine hours you emulate Grumpy from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. 

[greenishghostey]

the commonly referenced 'messy bun' eddie puts his hair into isn't actually a bun, it's just a ponytail he didn't pull all the way through

His pretty pretty curls tied back all messy because it’s summer and he’s got to clean out his van

That’s the plot synopsis of this. Also, goofy fluff for fluff's sake

///

July in Hawkins was usually a similar temperature to the surface of the sun. Eddie would lovingly grumble about how it “feels like Satan’s moist armpit”; he had such an eloquent way with words.

The summer sun was particularly punishing as it bounced around the trailer park. You were almost tempted to try and cook some eggs for breakfast on the steps of Eddie's trailer - the resulting bacteria would have been a bitch to deal with though.

Eddie always used hot, sticky summer days to clean his van. The body and windows desperately needed to be blasted with a hose. A whole lot of random crap had accumulated in the back of the van - fast food wrappers, busted guitar cables, Corroded Coffin poster samples. The brown shag rug lining the back needed to be vacuumed very, very badly, too.

You were always happy to help out with the van cleaning. Partly because it was just nice to spend time on a nice day with your boyfriend. But mainly because you got to look at him while he cleaned.

Eddie didn't own any shirts that were breezy enough for the July heat, so he ditched the shirt altogether. His tattoos and freckled skin were on full display in the golden sunshine. He was glowing. One, because he was a pretty guy, and two, because you had rubbed a lot of sunblock on him - much to his protests.

In addition to going half-naked, "showing off the goods," as he put it. Eddie also tied his curls up. The hair tie he used, which was probably months old, given how overstretched it was, only held his hair back loosely. The ponytail sat against the back of his neck, and several wild strands fell around his sweaty face.

You were taking a break from vacuuming the car seats, lounging back on a low, green deck chair and observing. Secretly, you were happy that you had the privilege of seeing Eddie being all effortlessly hot. The guy was a solid 10, and no one else in the entire town got to see him the way you did.

Admittedly, you felt a little iffy watching him while knocking back a beer from the cooler at your feet, objectifying him while he was hosing down the van. But you also knew that he was far too aware of what he was doing.

"You missed a spot on the windscreen." You pointed out, gesturing to the dried bird shit near the window wipers. Eddie turned to you and peered over his sunglasses. Letting him buy aviators was an awful idea. Especially since you'd seen Top Gun with your friends a few months back.

"I'm doing the wipers separately. There's more bird shit and dead bugs on 'em than what you can see," Eddie explained. He still moved the spray of the hose over the area you had pointed out. You were just trying to be helpful, and he appreciated it. "Oh, there's a huge spider in here too! Come see!"

You had to peel yourself off the plastic of the deck chair - the heat was just a joke now. Eddie had started poking at the wipers, inspecting the area for any live creepy crawlers that he could save before causing a tsunami for them.

"I swear if there's hair on this spider, I'll-" You were abruptly cut off by a fast spray of water hitting you in the chest. Eddie was a dead man. Regardless of his summer look.

"Been waiting all day to do that." Eddie cackled, doubling over at the sight of the death glare you were giving him. "Love ya, though. Hey, no bra, how nice of you." he preened, quickly stealing a kiss on your damp cheek.

The t-shirt you were wearing was now like a second skin. The red cotton clung to your torso, and you quickly realised the reason for Eddie's aim. As Eddie moved away from you, you made fast work of disarming him of the hose. The second it was in your hand, his face dropped, and he bolted around the van.

"Can you blame me for the wet t-shirt?! Like really?" Eddie pleaded as you stalked after him, hose in a vice grip. You knew your boyfriend was a perv, sure, but you could still get a bit of revenge in exchange for it.

"It is chaffing my armpits, Edward." You hissed, aiming a hose blast at his head, but he quickly ducked behind one of the open back doors.

"Well, I'm sorry about that. But you've been ogling me all day! Can't a guy see some wet t-shirt action!" This time he luckily dodged your line of fire.

"I've been ogling you for twenty minutes AT MOST!"

"HA! So, you admit-" Eddie cut himself off with an "oof" as you had managed to catch him and shove him lightly into the side of the van - the clean side. He immediately raised his hands in defeat, pushing his sunglasses into his hair so he could try to win you over with the puppy dog eyes. Damn, the guy was good; you had to give him some credit. "C'mon, babe, you don't really wanna do this. How 'bout I make it up to you later? I'll do that thing-" The offer was tempting, but you only pinned Eddie more firmly to the metal.

The spray blasted directly on the top of his head, soaking his face, hair and shoulders in an instant. "You will be doing that thing later, dumbass." You grumbled, releasing the now water-logged man and marching off with the hose.

You took maybe five steps away from Eddie before he ran up, grabbed you from behind and started shaking his sodden hair in your face like a big dog. His barking laugh at your struggling to run away warmed your heart and made you forgive him. Only a little bit, though.